The Fire Breather
by 14Phantom
Summary: Cornelia Blake: textiles major and chronic daydreamer. She takes an innocent nap between classes and finds herself on the cold ground of Hollin; in the right place, at the right time.
1. Chapter 1

**I haven't wrote anything in a long while but couldn't quite scratch the itch after recently re-watching the movies. So, without further ado, here's another girl-goes-to-middle-earth fic.**

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Chapter 1

Have you ever felt the way the cold December sun warms your darkest clothing? Saw the blinding light pierce bare-boned trees? Smelt the scent of freshly oiled leather against dry, frosty air? Tasted withered grass on the breeze, and heard the sound of absolute stillness?

Doesn't sound like something you can always experience, especially in a busy city.

I'd just spent the entire morning working on an embroidery project for my textiles class and now had a fifteen minute break before my next session. I laid down on the chaffed lunch table outside the old fine arts college in the interim, meaning for the winter cool air to revive me and rest my eyes, not lull me into a light sleep.

It's the distant chirping of a bird that finally rouses me enough to realize the tabletop is no longer under my back.

The sound of cars at the takeout next door are gone; the taste of greasy fries just a residue in my mouth. Sweet grassy decay mixed with the smell of oiled leather and unhindered light from a true-blue sky stings my eyes. Cold dew on the grass soaks into the faux leather leggings I wear.

I close my eyes, biting my lip to keep from shifting against the stiff coldness growing in my back and butt. It's a good kind of discomfort, and if this was a dream I didn't want to wake from it.

The grass sways noisily, giving away the approach of a group of people. It sounds so near I wonder if it is genuine or just a part of my dream.

After a moment of quiet brooding a single set of footsteps drew closer, accompanied by the confident clack-clack of a staff on frost packed soil.

"It's a bit cold to be napping in the glade, wouldn't you say?" his old voice is pleasantly warm, though a touch wearied, and annoyed.

"Oh, it is. I can't feel my butt." I reply, scrunching my eyebrows up against the intrusion.

He hmm-s a quiet note, his shadow falling over my eyes as he leans over me.

I squint at him from the thinnest sliver of opening eyes, meeting a wrinkled visage of grey and blue. "You're blocking the light,"

"Oh, I'm sorry, my dear." He immediately straightens, looking up and around his broad brimmed hat at the sky, smiling genially. "I didn't mean to hinder your view."

"Hmm."

The fidgeting resumes from back a ways and the older gentleman discretely glances over his shoulder before clearing his throat. "Might I inquire as to what you are doing here?"

"I'm watching the clouds. They're quite pretty today," never mind I'd been asleep moments before.

He doesn't call me out on that, just hmm-s again. "Yes, I suppose they are. But what are you doing _here_?"

Grudgingly, I sit up without looking away from the sky, shrugging my shoulders. My roughed up, over-the-shoulder, canvas bag is with me. The devil is really in the details today, I think. My usual embroidery supplies are in it, plus a few snacks.

I reach into the bag and take out a gala apple, ignoring the agitated shifting in my peripheral. I take a bite before I remember I was asked a question.

"Not sure," I say, pushing the bite of apple into one cheek. "Where is here, if you don't mind me asking?"

"This is Hollin, a short journey south from Rivendell."

"Oh. Well that's odd."

"Yes, indeed."

I gnaw away on the apple, flicking the core away after I finish. He says no more and I stand, wiping my hands on the tunic dress sticking out from under my leather jacket. It's the only absorbent material I'm wearing today. I've fallen pretty hard for the leather trend.

I'm not the only one, I see. The group of very tall and very short men all seem to have leather incorporated into their outfits—from shoes to gloves, to jerkins and belts.

"Alrighty then." I walk back the way they've just come and they split into two groups to let me pass through the middle. Their expressions are a mixture of bewildered distrust and open curiosity.

"Where are you going?" the smallest asks, his lips puckered just so.

"Where ever I am likely to find a telephone."

"A tele-phone?"

His closest friend elbows him, hard. They're similar; curly haired with baby faces, but the voices of grown men. I switch tactics quickly, pulling matching brown leather gloves from my coat pocket.

"I can see you lot have places to be, things to do . . . I appreciate your waking me up and all, but toodles—I'm not where I'm supposed to be."

"And where are you supposed to be?"

I give up pretending he isn't a wizard and take his pointy hat at face value. In true Johnny Depp fashion, I turn one way, and another, and then deliberately point towards the dark horizon.

"That way," I start walking again, wondering how far I'll get before someone stops me again.

The red bearded, axe wielding, helmet wearing, Dwarf—stops me.

"I wouldn't be heading that way if I were you, lassie."

"Why not? Looks cozy enough to me. Reckon there's a fire to warm my frozen ass on?"

His jaw drops and I enjoy the round of baffled looks I receive. The wizard has an invisible smirk on his lips, pretending to be unfazed.

The tallest of the nine gestures to one of the smaller guys. He looks in dire need of a drink. "Sam, start a fire."

"Are we having second breakfast?"

No one replies, though his buddy makes a fist ready to dole out a whack at the next stupid question.

Mr. Tall-and-Blond follows after the dark haired man, whispering rapid fire in a way that distinctly tells me three years of high school French can't hope to help me. They argue quietly while picking up wind fallen branches from nearby trees.

I give up on that exchange and plonk down by Sam. He builds a fire from some hastily thrown together stones and dry grass, hazel flecked blue eyes darting between my face and the fire as he mutters to himself, "Look fairer and feel fouler,"

The grey wizard sits next to me. "Do you have any idea how you came to be here . . . ? Dear me, it seems I've forgotten to inquire your name?"

It's a rather smooth question and I offer my hand to him to shake. He unhurriedly takes it, watching me still.

"Cornelia Blake," I twist my tongue in my mouth, wondering how best to explain myself. "I might have accidently misplaced myself."

The Dwarf rests on his axe, standing near the growing fire. "Misplaced yourself? You chose a right good place to do it."

"One would wonder why," the man shakes his head, sandy brown hair swaying. He wears richer clothing than all but the Elf, red cloth peeking out from under his cloak and leather jerkin. He's been the most reluctant to speak.

"Oh, I was quite bored." Expectant eyes look up from around the fire and I roll out my best answer. "I dreamt myself away from home and woke up here." I wasn't entirely convinced I wasn't still dreaming.

"Oh dear, that sounds terrible." I guess he must be the youngest, as he's the least weary.

"Have you tried dreaming yourself back?" for once, he's not scolding his counterpart.

"But I'm not bored now,"

He crosses his arms. "Do you always sleep when you're bored?"

"Usually,"

The shorter one tilts his head. "Does this happen often?"

"Not really, but I guess there was that one time with the wardrobe."

"Wardrobe?"

"Hmm." I don't really know where I thought I was going with that.

Thankfully, the knight snorts. "This is ridiculous. You can't dream yourself away somewhere!"

By now, the wizard has lit a pipe, silently watching the proceedings. He makes a thoughtful sound.

The pair of blonde shorties resume their questioning.

"Where are you from?" one asks.

"Is it far from here?"

Honesty, I think, is the best policy.

"I think it may be near, but also very far. I wonder if you've heard of Earth?"

He nods enthusiastically. "Middle Earth, yes—"

"Well, that explains it," I titter. "I came from the Lower Earth."

The wizard raises a grey brow and the leader-ly man crosses his arm from across the fire. His blonde haired shadow makes an interesting expression.

"Harad?" the naysayer scoffs. "You do not look like the Haradrim."

"Not Harad," I snipe, rolling my eyes for good measure. He looks affronted, leaning away to whisper something to the Dwarf.

The tall and dark haired ranger meets my eyes, speaking clearly but not loudly. "Surely not the Dark Lands?"

"Of course not, I said Lower Earth."

The blonde one shakes his head gently, long hair swaying. Three of the four small folk have begun eating. "No one here knows of this Lower Earth you speak of."

"I doubt she knows of it herself," the Dwarf sniffs, taking a link of sausage from their cook.

I brush it off, warming my feet near the fire. I'm more concerned with getting an ember on my suede boots than making them believe me.

The smell of food burning on an iron pan is too much for me to contain and I break out an aluminum tin of oatmeal cookies. I doubt they'd offer me food, innocent girl or not.

Mr. Second Breakfast swallows as a whiff hits his nose and I stuff a whole cookie in my mouth, offering the tin to him. "Want one? My nan made them this morning." Pointy ears perks up at the word 'nan' but doesn't comment.

"Don't mind if I do,"

The ranger looks like he wants to stop him from eating the cookie but he's too late to stop the little glutton.

"These are delicious!"

The Dwarf is sizing up the cookies now, looking down his nose and beard with hungry eyes. I offer out the tin without a word.

He smells it carefully before taking a bite, nodding in appreciation. "Fresh baked, no doubt about that." He turns to the disapproving ranger and Elf. "I'd like to know how the wee las ended up out here, days away from a stove, with fresh biscuits."

That seems to give them all something to consider. He's not wrong that it's physically impossible to end up in the middle of nowhere out of the blue and without intention.

I offer the cookies out to all but only the wizard takes one, nibbling silently for a moment. I put the tin away before anyone can change their mind, absently playing with the strap of my bag.

"What are you going to do now?" the short one is fast becoming my favourite person of the group.

"I'll wait for a sign—I'm here by accident but not without reason."

The grey coloured wizard chuckles at this. "Forgive me, my dear, but is this not already sign enough?"

"I think I'm poorly matched to aid nine warriors,"

The short one laughs. "We are not _all_ warriors."

"But you will be,"

He stops laughing at that and the knightly guy flashes me a withering glare.

The wizard laughs amiably, tapping spent leaves from his pipe before offering his hand to shake again. "I am Gandalf, Gandalf the Grey."

Pippin quickly introduces himself, having held back long enough in his eyes. He adds a short spiel on the other three Hobbits, much to Sam's dismay.

Aragorn sighs a little, frowns a little, and introduces himself—prompting Legolas and Gimli to introduce themselves in that order. I'm glad they've introduced themselves; I was running out of names to call them.

I look to Boromir and he glares back, lips tight. "That's fine. I'll just call you Mr. Bugle."

He sputters, turning slightly red around the collar. Gimli roars with laughter and I wonder if the bugle has even been invented yet. It does sound sort of like an insult out of context.

Regardless, he refuses to name himself and Pippin whispers me his name and affiliation as Aragorn and Sam douse the fire with loose dirt, scrubbing the pan out with dry grass.

After the camp is broken they shepherd me into the center of the walking formation—where Gandalf seems quite content to wait for me to ask questions.

All the while, I'm still wondering if food poisoning causes hallucinations of this caliber.

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 **Questions, comments, or concerns? Drop a review.**


	2. Chapter 2

**Thanks for the review, Lothelen! Much appreciated :)**

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Chapter 2

My knee highs were getting some pretty nasty mileage.

I'd bought them as a statement piece; brown suede moccasins with exaggerated stitching and traditional tie ups—no zippers. Gimli, of all people, complimented them.

They're well broken in now, and thankfully, probably the most comfortable pair of shoes I own.

We're still walking south through Hollin; the mountains on one side and the ruins of Eregion on the other. No one speaks much while we walk, and they shush me when I hum or sing. I smile and don't complain, which makes some of the fellowship overly weary. A smile is the most suspicious thing I can offer, apparently. That, and my appearance in general.

I'll admit, a sharp banged bob isn't the easiest hairdo to rock in a shampoo-less Middle Earth. What started as a straight dry cut is now well oiled and moving quickly from wavy to frazzled. It's annoying me, so much so that when we sit for a break I weave a crown of dead grass, rolling my hair around the makeshift hairband for a much improvised up-do. Surprisingly, the grass sticks well to greasy hair.

Other than greasy hair I'm doing alright, hygiene-wise.

Pippin takes a break from sparring with Boromir while Merry continues, focusing hard on the small sword in his hands.

"I don't often see women folk with short hair," he begins, watching me tuck flyaway strands into the grass crown. "Do all women wear their hair short, at least, where you are form?"

"Hmm," I consider, feeling the back of my new hairdo. "Long hair is favoured, but I find it too troublesome."

Pippin nods, touching his hand to his own curly head. He's the most sympathetic of the bunch.

"Come on, Pip! Help me out here," Merry calls, cheeks flushed with exertion.

Pippin returns to sword practice, taking an apple to eat in one hand as he does. Bill the pony seems to be carrying a satchel full of apples. They're awfully bruised though.

There's no snow on the ground but it is January, and cold. Cold when the sun is covered, that is. This break has been called to wait out the midday sun.

Sam cooks while Gandalf sits smoking his pipe near Frodo. Legolas and Gimli scan their surroundings while avoiding the other.

It's only by subtle sleuthing that I've drawn answers from the various members of the fellowship. They are altogether secretive, as you might expect.

Gimli bragged about the Misty Mountains the moment I mentioned the snowcapped peaks though, immediately drawing attention to the Redhorn—Caradhras—peak. But, according to Legolas, we are heading further south yet. He wouldn't mention the Gap of Rohan specifically, leaving it to Gandalf's discretion to inform me of that.

Gandalf intentionally doesn't tell me much, waiting and watching for me to ask the right, or wrong, questions.

I look up and away from the sky, noticing this is such an occasion that Gandalf watches me closely, the rim of his hat just almost hiding his curious eyes. I might have made just the slightest derisive snort when he mentioned the Gap of Rohan earlier.

Merry takes a break to grab something to eat off the fire next and I take out my tin of cookies. I'm trying not to eat up all their rations, especially when I consider they packed for nine.

All the same, Aragorn gives me a scolding look. "Save them for the road, Cornelia."

They all pronounce my name somewhat awkwardly. I've considered offering them a nickname but doubt they'll take 'Nellie' seriously. I don't take Nellie seriously.

Regardless, I stuff a cookie in each cheek, daring him to comment. He just sighs. I can tell he hasn't quite decided how to deal with me yet. His respect for Gandalf keeps him hush-hush, I gather.

I take a sip of water after almost choking myself, pretending to be unaffected by the taste of water in an animal skin. It's nauseating at best.

For a minute, I trace the geometric pattern of earthy colours on my tunic dress. I make my mind up and slip out of my shoulder bag and leather coat, approaching Boromir and Pippin.

"Mind if I join?"

Boromir pauses, lips pursed. He meets Aragorn's eyes, who stands off behind me. Whatever Aragorn expresses silently ends in Boromir tossing me a blade. I unsheathe it and hold it in one hand, feeling the weight. It isn't as heavy or awkward as I first assumed.

I take to Pippin's right, joining the little exercise. I resolve to treat it a little like badminton, swiping with the cheek of the blade.

Boromir immediately corrects me, of course.

"Edge down, girl."

"What if I hit you?"

He snorts. "You won't hit me."

That nettles me and I lunge in, bringing the sword up as though I were to save a birdy from hitting the ground.

Unsurprisingly, Boromir catches the strike on his sword, twisting it around and forcing me back.

I almost lose my footing but twist away, dancing out of the way and back into place with a tight smile. My hand already hurts.

He narrows his eyes at me, internally cursing me, no doubt. Still, he keeps drilling me in sword form—maybe just a little harder than he does Pippin.

I cycle out before I can truly begin to hurt, allowing Merry back into the imagined training circle. Sam hands me a bowl of stewed bits and bites, same as he did for Pip and Merry before me.

There are no spoons so I sip on the steaming broth—or rather, slurp.

Aragorn chuckles, watching Merry and Pippin. "Move your feet,"

Gandalf and Gimli rest upwind of the fire and I catch Gimli expressing his opinion.

". . . Which I note they have not," I hear him grumble. "I would say we are taking the long way 'round."

I look back to Merry and Pippin in time to see them trip Aragorn, who falls rather spectacularly on the apple he was just eating. He breaks it under his fall and I laugh, glancing up at the sky one more time.

Sam sees me do this and wearily casts his gaze up, wondering what I've been watching for.

"What's that?" he says, squinting nervously.

"It's just a wisp of cloud."

I wonder just how poorly Gimli sees and debate stealing Boromir's line as I do.

"It's moving fast," Boromir comments, shielding his eyes a moment. "Against the wind,"

Legolas finally looks over, setting his Elf eyes to good use.

"Crebain from Dunland!"

Before Aragorn can call for us all to hide I've grabbed my bag and dived headlong into a needle-ly bush, flattening myself to the ground. I'm in no mode to have my eyes pecked out.

"Take cover!" Boromir yells, shooing the Hobbits into hiding places.

The roar of squawking birds and flapping wings draws closer until a flurry of black bodies swarms over our hiding place, feathers falling all around us. It smells absolutely putrid.

They circle for a few moments and I look up, gawking. They are the largest crows I've ever seen. Clearly, they weren't the same type that ate soggy French fries from dumpsters.

A distant sound like a horn cuts through the din and they wheel away, gone as quickly as they came.

I poke my head out of the bushes and Gandalf gets to his feet and out from under a rocky lip, gripping his hat in one hand. He looks ready to stomp on it.

"Spies of Saruman," he spits. "The passage south is being watched."

He looks to us, one at a time. I crinkle my toes—they're about to be very cold.

"We must take the pass of Caradhras!"

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 **Big thank you for the peeps who added _The Fire Breather_ to their favourites and alerts! **


	3. Chapter 3

**Big thanks to everyone who favourited and followed** ** _The Fire Breather_** **!**

 **To my reviewers, a special thanks and quick word :O**

 **Reader 1: I'm glad you're enjoying my writing and my original character :)**

 **HuitFemmes: I didn't expect Cornelia and her lack of awkwardness to be so well received! I seem to be doing something right :3**

 **Antoninsh: To answer your question—yes, Cornelia knows where she is and what's going on ;)**

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Chapter 3

I'd only just come from the below zero weather of winter in North America, wearing what was acceptable for trekking several kilometers in a windy city. However, the Caradhras Pass was a very different kind of cold. I simply was not dressed for deep, drifting, snow—and razor sharp wind.

Leather decidedly does not fend off the cold quite like a quilted goose down jacket. But, despite my keen desire to complain I continue smiling. Stiffly.

Legolas looks over his shoulder and spots my grit expression, one dark eyebrow creeping up. His expressions are always the highlight of my day.

"Can I sing?" I ask, puckering my frozen lips a bit.

"No," Aragorn says quickly.

"Hum?"

"No," Boromir grunts, pulling Pippin out of a chest deep drift.

"Whistle?"

Gimli laughs, which I assume also means no. I keep smiling, though my lips feel like they are two degrees short of chapping apart.

There's a bolt of embroidery cloth in my bag, and I consider using it as a scarf, or even styling it as a shayla to cover my poor ears and scalp. A girl at the arts college showed me how to pin it several different ways for a collab project in textiles-though I doubt shaylas are designed to protect against the cold. Not that cotton would even help against the cold.

At least, not very much.

Legolas stops at the head of the pack, waiting for me to catch up to him. I watch as he sheds his cloak, handing it over to me.

"You won't be cold?" I remember something about Elves being more durable than humans, but this is a bit extreme.

He just shakes his head and returns to the front, lightly padding across snow that myself and the others sink knee and waist deep into.

I stop and quickly wrap the cloak around my shoulders, bunching the long tail around my shoulders and under my chin. The zipper of my coat has rubbed a raw spot on my neck. I trot along the path made by the rest of the fellowship and catch up, passing a scowling Boromir.

My attire may not be appropriate for Caradhras but I'm no stranger to deep snow on an unbeaten path. Nan turned seventy-four in the spring, and we still went snowshoeing together every winter—even went to Mt. Fidelity for my sixteenth birthday.

I take a spot at the front next to my new best friend (Legolas) and gladly kick down the snow for Gandalf and Aragorn behind me. My boots haven't soaked through yet, thanks to the wonder of waterproof spray treatment.

Behind us, Frodo takes a tumble and slides down the hill a ways. I'd forgotten all about wanting to pick up the Ring. Gandalf has yet to properly inform me what we're doing and why we're doing it. But maybe he assumes I already know the details.

"Boromir?" Aragorn questions. He's just picked up the Ring.

"It is a strange fate that we should suffer so much fear and doubt over so small a thing . . ."

"Borormir . . . !" Aragorn warns, hand sliding across the hilt of his sword. "Give the Ring to Frodo."

I feel a sharp pain between my ears, a murky thrumming jumbling my thoughts. I think I hear words but nothing translates. My head tilts of its own accord and I suddenly feel a steady hand on my shoulder. I break from it and blink back at Legolas, who eases his hand away.

"As you wish," Boromir answers, shaking off the stupor. "I care not."

Frodo snatches back the Ring, dangling from the chain Boromir still holds. Boromir frowns to himself before making a more pleasant expression, ruffling Frodo's hair as he passes. Aragorn lets go of his sword.

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The weather takes a turn for the worst, blindsiding us with a snowstorm of dagger sharp ice crystals. I do my best to shield the Hobbits alongside Boromir and Aragorn, who practically carry them. Their Hobbit feet are white at the ankles and pansy-purple-bruised about the toes and heels.

My boots are half frozen and half wet, though my feet stopped aching a short while ago, in favour of outright numbness. To make matters worse, the wind is howling louder still and the sleet and snow cuts at our cheeks as we walk into it.

Legolas suddenly stops and turns his eyes to the sky, eyelashes and brows coated in flakes of ice and snow. I'm almost relieved to hear him call to us of impeding danger. All the sooner that we can get off this mountain.

"There is a fell voice on the air . . . !"

"It's Saruman!" Gandalf calls over the wind.

A crack of thunder explodes around us and I push Boromir with Merry and Pippin closer to the cliff wall. Rocks and snow tumble past us. My mouth hangs agape as rock big enough to split my head open glances off my shoulder.

"He's trying to bring down the mountain! Gandalf, we must turn back!" Aragorn implores. I keep a leather gloved hand against Boromir's shield, watching for more debris.

Stubbornly, Gandalf refuses. He raises his staff and I am momentarily in awe of his bellowing voice while he chants "losto Caradhras, sedho, hodo, nuitho I ruith!"

I hope for it to work but nothing changes—an avalanche of snow falls over us, burying the fellowship entirely and blocking any further progress we might make. The energy we expend digging ourselves out is tremendous by itself.

"We must get off the mountain!" Boromir begs. "Make for the Gap of Rohan and take the west road to my city . . . !"

"The Gap of Rohan takes us too close to Isengard!" Aragorn quickly rebukes. I'd be more convinced if he didn't check his finger for his ring.

"We cannot pass over the mountain." Gimli concludes. " Let us go under it! Let us go through the mines of Moria!"

I look to Gandalf. He has an expression of resignation on his face. "Let the Ring-Bearer decide."

Boromir cuts his arm through the air, expressing all of our frustrations. "We cannot stay here! This will be the death of the Hobbits!"

"Frodo?" Gandalf prompts.

Frodo's lips and cheeks are wine stained from the wind, and he trembles from a deep rooted shiver. Despite this, he clearly speaks his decision.

"We will go through the mines."

"So be it."

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 **Thanks for reading :) another short chapter for your enjoyment. The next chapter is a little bit longer so it probably won't be ready until Wednesday-ish.**

 **Any questions, comments, and/or concerns? :O**


	4. Chapter 4

**This is fanfiction, the magical land where you can mention all forms of media without getting copyright lawyers angrily emailing and calling you. In this chapter, Cornelia sings/hums "Suffer Not" by Submotion Orchestra, which I obviously do not own, like I obviously do not own Lord of the Rings either.**

 **Thanks for reviewing, Antoninsh, Of-Light-and-Shadow, EGGS, and Lothelen! I'm really surprised by how well Cornelia is being received by you guys :O**

 **Of-Light-and-Shadow: Thanks for the gentle encouragement :) I will do my best!**

 **Lothelen: Currently, I'm just focusing on friendly bonding and banter amongst the nine walkers and Cornelia. Glad the present tense is working for you :D**

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Chapter 4

We make good time on the way down the mountain, mostly by falling and sliding on our asses. Legolas is the only one immune to this of course; even Gandalf falls, much to the delight of the Hobbits.

A fire is erected the moment we hit the base of the mountain and Sam starts cooking a strong smelling leafy soup. It's well past midnight but dawn is still a ways off. Gandalf has decided we may recover our strength for however long we need before making for the Doors of Durin.

I've pulled my shoes off to dry by the fire, praying to whoever will listen that they don't shrink. The beds of my toenails and toes are still purple and I massage them gently, afraid they might fall off if I press too hard.

Merry and Pippin shiver next to me, cradling hot bowls in their hands. They're more interested in pressing the bowls to their cold hands than eating the contents for once. Never one to let a silence last longer than a moment, Pippin finds something to discus.

"Your feet are tiny, Corn-nelia."

Size 5, I think to myself. Finding women's shoes that small was a challenge sometimes.

"It's because I am so short,"

"Short!" Merry blurts.

"I'm the shortest amongst all my relatives," I explain, remembering that—for once—I wasn't the shortest amongst the group. "Nan says it is because I drank and smoked too much while I was growing."

Gimli laughs loudly at that. "You smoke, lassie?"

Boromir scoffs before I can reply. "Are you not still a child?"

I'd originally assumed Boromir would be polite, but his hostility knew no bounds against those he'd yet to trust. I resolved to be politely collected and shrugged easily.

"I am youngest here and a child in all your eyes, but am grown and a woman in the eyes of my peers."

Pippin twists his mouth a little, thinking through an exhausted fog. "I'm twenty-eight this year. Are _you_ telling _me_ that you are younger than I am?"

I nod, breaking out my embroidery supplies to occupy my hands. There's a handkerchief sized piece of soft cloth and I smooth it on my knee before threading silver floss onto a needle. I consider the lack of response from the group and sense their disconcertion—they don't like that they are taking a child, and a girl, along on a high risk mission. Time to switch tactics.

Frodo speaks first, which surprises me. It's the first time he's spoken to me, and he seems genuinely sympathetic.

"How old are you?"

"Well, I suppose I am . . ." I count on my fingers. "Four days old?"

They all seemed to have been holding their breath for my answer, as Aragorn's chin slips out of his palm and Boromir makes an exasperated sound—even Gimli clucks his tongue at me. Gandalf chuckles, reassuring me that I've made the correct decision.

"I would not know how to measure the days of Lower Earth against the days of Middle Earth, for they are not always equal." I surprise myself with my eloquence, suddenly very glad for the hours I spent playing Dungeons and Dragons as a high schooler.

They leave their questions at that and I pick away at my little project, stitching the likeliness of the peaks of the Misty Mountains on the upper middle of the cloth. I plan on doing a panoramic arc of what I can remember of the silhouette of the mountains.

Pippin and Merry cuddle into me on either side, watching me pass the needle through the cloth swiftly. They shiver so strongly that I have trouble holding my needle steady. More than that, I worry they won't be able to sleep through their discomfort.

The small camp has fallen into brooding quiet and I gather that now is an acceptable time to lighten the mood.

" _Music that gentlier on, that spirit lies—than tired eyelids upon tired eyes—_ " no one shushes me this time so I continue on, singing softly. " _There is sweet music here, that softer falls, has petals from stone roses, on the ground._ "

I repeat it a few times, humming in between and singing in varying octaves. Sam nods off where he is sitting by the fire, only to jerk himself awake again. I keep at it until Merry and Pippin drift off, trying not to laugh when I hear Gimli begin to snore. Boromir, too, falls asleep, all while looking deeply contemplative.

However, Aragorn and Gandalf speak quietly away from the fire, setting aside rest for the moment. Likewise, Legolas the Never Sleeping, stands watch. I swear I see his ears twitching.

I hum for my own company, not quite ready to put my needle work down. I'm so exhausted that I just can't seem to get comfortable. Legolas leaves me be for all of ten minutes before nodding my way.

"Take some rest, mellon nin."

* * *

In the morning, I wake from the sound of distant howling wolves. The cold has set me stiff after the hike up and down Caradhras. I roll over, groaning mutely. Now would have been a nice time to fall back to sleep.

I get up and attend to my humanly needs as cleanly as I can. The Hobbits are just rousing.

Aragorn and Legolas talk with their backs to the camp, speaking Elvish. I realize by now they wouldn't be speaking Elvish if I weren't around, and were likely discussing future plans that they wouldn't want a potential spy to hear. The rest of the Fellowship wouldn't be so understanding otherwise.

There's nothing for it if they want to keep me out of the loop, though I wonder how long it will take for me to pick Elvish up by ear.

I tighten my grass wreath and weave my hair back around it. Maybe it could be considered a Viking kransen. If my hair were longer I might have considered braiding it in true Viking fashion.

Sam starts a small fire again, reheating the watery broth from last night, adding more water still and some edible plants Aragorn has brought over to him. He warned us last night our rations were getting scarce, and would be scarcer still as we traveled through Moria.

As we set out again I hand out the last of my oatmeal cookies, offering the aluminum tin to Sam.

"Here: use it to store some other food."

He takes it. I'd noticed he liked the look of it.

"Thanks . . . my lady."

I laugh, because he isn't the only one to avoid speaking my name aloud.

"Is Cornelia really so hard to say?"

"It makes me think of corn," Pippin sighs wistfully.

I laugh harder at that. Of course it would remind him of corn.

"I assure you, my name does not have anything to do with corn." Though I wonder if corn has much to do with my name?

"What does your name mean, my lady?" Frodo asks this, smiling just a little. My laughter is such that people can't help but smile.

"I suppose it changes from place to place. In general though, it speaks of strength of will and wisdom."

"I wonder about that," Boromir mutters. I like that he at least joins the conversation.

I make a polite and forgiving gesture, considering my next words carefully.

"From the Latin words _cornu_ , horn/horned, and _belli_ , war. War horn."

"That's a kingly name," Gimli replies. "Err, queenly."

"Indeed!" I jump at the opportunity to embellish the idea. "Cornelia—daughter of Amador Domitius, king widower of Cyth—led the people against his tyranny to reclaim her mother's homeland and assume her rightful throne. Or so the story goes."

Just the intro of what promises to be a riveting story puts a spring in the Hobbits' steps.

Boromir sniggers, however. "A woman ruling a country? By herself?"

"Is that strange?" I remark. "Surely there are women who rule lands here?"

"None," he replies surely. I see Legolas rise his eyebrow. He's probably thinking of Galadriel, as I have.

"Women rule lands where I am from, and have done so for centuries, if not millennia." Boromir looks ready to say something else, so I speak again. "And I expect they will continue to do so—for the foreseeable future."

Boromir is just the slightest bit tinged. I wonder if it's as easy as that to reprimand him.

"What happened after she became queen?" Merry politely inquires. He's keeping pace with me now, fast-walking to keep up.

I open my mouth to add to the story but am cut off by a very loud and near howl. At the crest of the hill we climb, a very primeval looking wolf appears. Three more soon join it—and by the sounds of the howls more are coming still.

"A tale for another time, I think."

* * *

 **Putting this out a day earlier. It's a little bit shorter than I planned but that just means I already have stuff to add to the next chapter.**

 **Thanks for reading!**


	5. Chapter 5

**Thanks for the reviews, Antoninsh :D much appreciated!**

 **SortingHat: I've read lots of stories where the OC ends up in Middle Earth by dying. Train accident and plane crash are fairly specific suggestions and as I've never boarded either I'm not particularly qualified to write them :P either way, a fantasy story such as this isn't about making things believable, but rather unbelievable.**

 **As SortingHat has pointed out—if you consider this the basic-vanilla-tenth-walker scenario (which it is), then there's no need to feel obligated to read or review. But don't worry, I won't stop writing just because there's nothing new to see here, folks! :}**

 **Thanks for the review, Nenuk! I'm always amazed by how much people enjoy Cornelia!**

 **Thanks for the continued support, Lothelen! Always a pleasure to hear from you :)**

* * *

Chapter 5

You'd think they might have, at the very least, given me a weapon on this perilous journey, but no—they didn't. Not even a glorified letter opener such as the Hobbits were each given.

So I back myself between Gandalf and Legolas, picking up a nice and heavy rock. Merry and Pippin follow my example, holding the rocks overhand. The difference being, they actually manage to hit the wolves.

After the first two misses I hold the third close, like a shield. I can always trying bashing them across the snout, should they make it that far.

Usually, I'm not one for threatening such actions upon any canid species. However, these wolves were not the shy and occasional sheep eating wolves from Earth. They were misshapen at best, and downright vile at worst—all gnarly teeth and yellow claws, butchered hide and fur and holey ears.

Not something I'd want anywhere near my face, for sure.

Legolas keeps the wolves at bay, for the most part. I see now that his talent with the bow was grossly underestimated.

Aragorn and Boromir are furthest from the huddle, swords drawn, one shield raised. I lose sight of Gimli, until I see that he's been caught under the corpse of a wolf—again, or maybe for the first time?

And Gandalf, despite his aged appearance, swings his staff and sword about with twice the vigour. He remains close to the Hobbits, being their overseer. They've drawn their sword in favour of rocks by now, fiercely stabbing, though rarely hitting anything. I think they may have been better off with their rocks.

The stream of wolves and vicious snarling is such that it's difficult to tell how long we fight for and we continuously shift to the left, towards a small glade of trees.

It's tiring business and one can only last so long before making a mistake.

A wolf latches onto Boromir's arm and my heart thumps at the pained expression on his face. He wears leather arm guards, vambraces, but I doubt very much that they hold against these mutant wolves' teeth.

I finger whistle as loudly as I can. The wolves and Legolas startle, ears perking. It gives Boromir time enough to smash the hilt of his sword against the wolf's skull. However, I've been somewhat separated from the group and the wolves are suddenly much more interested in the whistling girl than the men with swords.

I'm closer to the trees than to the safety of the Fellowship and I make a split second decision to bolt it to the trees.

I run faster than I ever have, the angry yips of wolves goading me on, and hit a tree without stopping. It's been eight or nine years since I last climbed a tree, but you wouldn't say it after watching me scramble up one now.

The wolves jump at the tree, swaying it stiffly to the left and then right. Thankfully, an absence of thumbs makes it's difficult for them to climb after me; not for lack of trying.

In the meantime, I watch the Fellowship systematically close ranks on the wolves, dispatching some and scaring the rest away. I stay put, catching my breath, surveying the red tagged injuries. There are a few.

"Are you okay? Corn-nelia?" Pippin calls up. I'm glad to see him injury free.

"Yeah, I'm okay." I say that, hoping they can't see my trembling as I eyeball the distance to the ground. I could really go for an ice cream about now.

Aragorn turns his head up at me, squinting in one eye. "It's safe to come down,"

I don't smile, just sort of grimace, and shift uneasily on my branch. A grin splits Gimli's beard.

"Are you stuck, lassie?"

I stretch a leg out, feeling for the branch below. I miss it by half a foot.

"Yeah."

He roars at that, patting his beard down after the outburst.

"The way you flew up that tree, lassie—I figured it was one of your talents,"

I try lowering myself to the next branch but quickly haul myself back up, not trusting the creaking tree branch or the shivering muscles in my arms. I'm a cat, claws designed for climbing up, but not down.

Legolas frowns, collecting the last of his salvageable arrows.

"You almost had it; just let go."

Easy for him to say, I think. He's lived his whole life surrounded by trees.

Aragorn reads my thoughts on my face and cracks a rare smile.

"Jump, someone will catch you."

I raise an eyebrow at that. Someone indeed.

"Hurry up," Boromir snaps. "We haven't all day. The wolves will return if we tarry here."

I take my shoulder bag off and throw it at Boromir with as much force as I can muster. He catches it with his one good arm and scowls at me.

"There's a bolt of bleached cloth—bind your arm with it." Never mind I'd planned on making my nan a new table cloth from it.

I ignored them for a moment and hug the trunk of the tree, nails digging painfully deep into the bark, and slide down to the next branch.

There's still a good ten feet to go, and very little to hold my weight on the way down. I noticed now the claw marks from the wolves and a cracked branch that only just supported me on the climb up.

I take a breath and jump away from whoever might actually try to catch me, rolling as I hit the ground. It practically knocks the wind out of me but I spring up from the second tumble, none the worse for wear. I can't be coddling myself—there's worse to come.

Boromir hasn't opened my bag, staring at it rather than making an effort to accept my offer of aid. I stalk straight up to him and wrench it back, ripping the cloth out of the bag, furiously tearing it into strips with quick rips.

The noise seems to shake them from their silent reverie and Aragorn quickly cleans the bite on Boromir's arm with a full water skin before taking the makeshift bandages from me.

Legolas stands to my left, watching the process.

"That was not cheap cloth," he says, quietly.

It's not as valuable as he thinks, but still more expensive than run-of-the-mill fabric from _Lower Earth_. I shrug it off, trying not to lament its intended purpose.

"It serves its use."

* * *

 **Big thanks to everyone for reading to this point! The reviews and various favourites and followers are much much appreciated! Hope you all continue to enjoy the story :)**


	6. Chapter 6

**To my 'Guest': OMG, dumb stupid badly written stupid Mary Sue! How dare I?! How much does it cost-s me to go back to high school? Where are these magical writing classes you speak of?! Do they accept payment in cash or chickens?!**

 **To everyone else: Thanks for your kind reassurances :) I appreciate you all taking the time to review and share your very welcome opinions of Cornelia and my writing. It makes my day, it really does!**

 **Evangeline Pond: No need to apologize for the actions of anonymous reviewers. SortingHat is technically not wrong, and most others I laugh off for their ridiculous grammar and silly brickbat.**

 **Lothelen: Thanks for your double reassurances. It's nice to know most of my readers seem willing to defend me!**

 **Of-Light-and-Shadow: I'm very happy to know (some) people think my contribution to the tenth walker fandom is (somewhat) unique!**

 **Antoninsh: Glad the cat comment gave you a chuckle!**

* * *

Chapter 6

"The walls of Moria!" Gimli proclaims loudly, as though we are as blind as we are now deaf. He's been regaling us with tales of Moria all day long, much to Legolas' dismay.

Still, the walls of Moria are a fantastic sight, regardless of the menacing atmosphere and apprehension from all the Fellowship minus one Dwarf. I steer clear from the shore of the small lake.

We don't have to search for the door long, as the moon streaks out from behind the clouds and the door is lit on the sheer rock face. Gandalf is practically giddy, ambling up to the revealed door in spite of his antipathy for the Mines of Moria.

"It reads, 'The Door of Durin, Lord of Moria. Speak, friend, and enter."

"What do you suppose that means?" Merry, ever the inquisitor, asks.

"It's quite simple, really. If you are friend, speak the password and the doors will open." He's so confident that I can't help but giggle, quietly-behind my hand. He stares back at me, cheek twitching.

He recites a short incantation, though nothing happens. I sit down, receiving questioning looks from the guys. They'll be joining me in anther ten minutes, probably.

* * *

I play a few word games with Merry and Pippin—to keep them occupied. They take a shine to tongue twisters.

I thought Gandalf or Frodo would have figured the riddle out by now but Gandalf is still at it.

Merry and Pippin see that I'm getting tired and head over to Sam, who has sadly bid Bill the pony farewell. I yawn and recline against a rock, thinking about hot baths and silk night gowns.

Happily, that thought might become a reality soon, as the Fellowship are scheduled to stop by Lothlorien after Moria. I worry for a moment if I can conceal my origins from Galadriel, because I doubt I can fool her.

I hear water splashing and sit up abruptly. Aragorn hisses a sharp reprimand at Merry and Pippin.

"Do not disturb the water!"

Boromir quickly drops the rock he was about to skip across the surface, crossing his arms behind his back, looking sheepish. I raise an eyebrow at him as he glances my way and he quickly averts his eyes.

Gandalf takes little notice of the exchange, sitting himself heavily upon a stone. After a moment I feel his gaze on my back and cross my legs. I can't wait to make it to Lothlorien, even if I end up wearing a dress or being flayed alive by Galadriel.

A ripple breaks across the water and I edge closer to Frodo, working an idea in my brain. Frodo is contemplating something thoroughly and I make a silly face at him. I mouth a silent word and Frodo beams at me.

"It's a riddle," he whispers, turning to Gandalf. "What's the Elvish word for friend?"

Gandalf blinks lazily. Clearly, he doesn't believe it would be as simple as that. " _Mellon_."

The doors creak and crack open and I yip in delight—Aragorn shushes me loudly.

We gather round the dark doorway and lean into the opaque darkness, entering double file wearily. I step on what I know to be a human—Dwarf—bone and swallow thickly. The nausea doesn't pass right away.

"Soon, master Elf, you will be enjoying the hospitality of the dwarves; roaring fires, malt beer, red meat off the bone. This is the home of my cousin, Balin, and they call it a mine . . . a mine!"

Gandalf lights his staff and my heart sinks in my chest. It's worse than I imagined. Much worse.

Boromir sharply breathes in, hand raising halfway to his mouth. "This is no mine . . . it's a tomb!"

A massacre of Dwarf bodies are strewn about, some partially mummified. The air is stagnant and I have to convince myself that there's nothing I can possibly catch in here to make me sick.

Gimli's expression is horrified and he is shocked to silence for a fraction of a moment, turning limply about. He chokes back a wet sob.

"No . . . no, no . . . NO!"

Legolas, ever the calm head, pulls an arrow from a dried carcass.

"Goblins!" he spits, drawing back an arrow cautiously. We all back away and I make a point of staying close to Frodo. If possible, I would like to avoid the angry Watcher.

"We make for the Gap of Rohan." Boromir announces roughly. "We should never have come here."

There's no order to our retreat and I hold Frodo back before the others. Frodo flashes me a fearful expression and I plead him to trust me with wide eyes, pointing my chin to the lake.

A tentacle whips above the surface and Frodo backpedals into me.

Boromir gets roped up by a slimy limb and fumbles upside down to unsheathe his sword. Aragorn steps into the water to slice at the Watcher's arms and Gimli axes the tip of a tentacle into a split end.

After a few seconds of struggling Boromir cuts himself loose and lands on Aragorn who, for the most part, gallantly attempts to break his fall.

"Into the mines!" Gandalf commands, herding us together again.

Without another word Legolas fires a barrage of quick arrows, distracting the Watcher long enough for everyone to retreat back into the dark tomb of Moria.

The Watcher reaches for us but finds its arms just short of catching another victim. Angrily, it lashes out on the mountain side, wrenching the doors down around us.

The light of the moon disappears and absolute darkness descends upon us. My chest seizes and I grip Frodo's shoulder tightly, swallowing around a knob of panic in my throat. You could say I dislike the dark.

I feel Frodo's stubby Hobbit hands ease my fingers from their purchase, startled by a sympathetic squeeze.

Gandalf lights his staff once again and I hold my head high, if only to avoid seeing the fallen dwarves.

"We now have but one choice." Gandalf declares. "We must face the long dark of Moria. Be on your guard . . . there are older and fouler things than Orcs in the deep places of the world."

He sizes us up, gauging our fearful eyes and determined postures.

"Let us hope that our presence will go unnoticed."

* * *

 **Much thanks for reading to this point!**


	7. Chapter 7

**Once again, this is a fanfiction and the songs/original story do not belong to me.**

 **Of-Light-and-Shadow: Thanks for the review! This next chapter isn't so much of a cliff hanger? I think?**

 **Lothelen: I'm glad my word choices are approved of :O and thanks for the favourite!**

 **EGGS: Cornelia does have the option of changing things, but at the risk of waltzing into the unknown. As for romance, I'm not entirely sure who suits Cornelia the most at this point. I'm always open to suggestions though!**

 **Antoninsh: Boromir is actually one of my favourite characters :D**

* * *

Chapter 7

Much to my relief, we do not immediately face danger inside the Mines of Moria.

It's uncomfortably dark, but plenty quiet—and the frequency of Dwarf skeletons lessens as the path narrows.

We move quietly as church mice at first, Gandalf scolding anyone who so much as breathes aloud. It adds strain to our already tense nerves and, for once, everyone is equally unnerved. Well, maybe Legolas is slightly worse off than the others.

Regardless, the silence is killing us—Pippin and me especially.

I hum a little tune, watching Gandalf's face. He raises an eyebrow but makes no effort to berate me for my noise.

Silent tears stream down Gimli's face, and he chokes not so silent sobs in his throat. I can't even imagine what it is for him to walk through this home of his cousin, now dilapidated beyond reclaim.

I hum something that might be familiar to him, parting my lips to sing liltingly.

" _Far over the Misty Moutains rise, leave us standing upon the height. What was before we see once more—in our kingdom a distant light._ "

Gimli's jaw drops and even Gandalf looks back at me for a long, uncertain, moment.

" _We lay under the Misty Mountain's cold, in slumbers deep, and dreams of gold. We must awake, our lives to make—and in the darkness a torch we hold."_

A tear wells up in my eye and I hold my voice steady, conveying a soothing tone to my words.

" _Some folk we never forget, some kind we never forgive—haven't seen the end of it yet, we'll fight as long as we live . . . Far away, the Misty Mountain's cold._ "

Gimli inhales sharply, hiccoughing and wiping tears. "How do you know that song?"

"I know many songs; both those that are known and those that are not yet sung." I trail off softly.

He snuffles loudly, clearing his throat. "You sing very beautifully."

I thank him quietly. I _can_ sing fairly well, but only because I am uncannily talented at mimicry.

* * *

Eventually, our sense of night diminishes and we are all yawning as we walk. Gandalf finally calls a rest

Sam passes around some rations on Aragorn's bidding. Pippin yawns through his light meal and Merry sits carefully on a rock, measuring the distance to the edge dubiously.

"Say, Cornelia—what happened to that queen after?"

"Cornelia Domitius?" I ask.

"Yeah,"

I gather my thoughts for a moment. "She went on to rule her land by the name of Belliel, and the people worshipped her as an avatar of righteous calamity."

"Righteous calamity?" Sam echoes. "That doesn't sound very good."

It doesn't surprise me that Sam would say that.

"Some would say that Belliel became a force of nature, an agent of balance deified though the birth of an avenging queen."

Aragorn watches the dark, one ear angled my way; feigning disinterest.

"The land was amuck with strife, both inside and outside the boarders of Cyth. The lands around her vied for status, but Belliel did not yearn for more land or power—did not need it either. What she sought was a unified peace across all the lands her people called home.

"However, she was no great speaker or lady of charismatic stature."

Boromir scoffs. "What good was she to her people if she could not negotiate with others to secure their peace, much wanted as it was?"

I ignore him for the moment.

"Still, the people of Cyth had every faith in their leader, despite her strange ways . . . for she was one who spoke clearly through her actions, and her efforts were rarely in vain.

"There were two major conflicting peoples on either side of Cyth. During her father's reign these two kingdoms would fight in the southern plains of Cyth, at a locations known historically as the Fields of Rolling Green. Belliel knew the value of these lands, and wished to reclaim and restore them to their former glory.

"She first asked that the kings of opposing sides cease their bickering on her land. But they would not march their armies the long way round the young queen's land for something as simple as a request.

"One, King Wilther, replied he would cease only if she married his son and ceded her land to them. The other ignored her entirely."

Boromir laughs at this, and Gimli makes a sound that says he knows exactly how Belliel is going to answer.

I toss my nose into the air, shaking my hair from my face. "That was, of course, a grave insult."

"What did she do?" Pippin whispers, earnestly.

"You see, Cyth was an arid land with an extensive irrigation system. During the rainy season the flat lands would flood by the aid of a great dam, and the water collected would be used during the dry season for raising crops.

"The two armies met at the end of the dry season, after Cyth collected the harvest and their need for water lessened. Further still, the rains had been plentiful that year, and whether it was coincidence—or divine intervention—Belliel had control of a small sea.

"On the fifth day of battle, Belliel released the dam."

I wonder if I was inspired by the future events of this world, or if this is simply where my muse took me. Either way, I imagine what Merry's and Pippin's expression will be in Isengard when Treebeard calls for the dam to be broken.

"The armies of the two kings were washed off the plains, the survivors in such a pitiful state that by the time Belliel marched to their flooded encampments both generals readily agreed to her offer of aid.

"She wasn't so kind as to unconditionally offer them aid, and promised that she would see them suffer should they insist on resuming hostilities. She would walk away if they did not call a truce."

"And did they?" Legolas asks.

"They did indeed. The flooding could be seen as nothing other than an enchantment upon Belliel's land, bent to her every whim and will.

"What was the Battle of the Rolling Green came to be known as Belliel's Mustering, as both armies pledged allegiance to her and her people."

"And the kings?" Boromir queries.

"They conceded Belliel's strength and flew her banner in their capitals, acknowledging her power over them and the very land they sat upon."

They recognize after a moment that the story has finished and Merry and Pippin jump to discussing it, Sam occasionally commenting. Frodo contemplates silently and Gimli nods appreciatively. They are all distracted from darker thoughts for the moment.

* * *

 **Thanks for all the reviews, favourites, and follows!**


	8. Chapter 8

**Evangeline Pond: Glad you liked Cornelia's story time! It's sort of her most advertised skill at the moment.**

 **Lothelen: I don't mean to make Boromir overly sexist (but it happened to come out that way) I just feel that he would be in a society full of male strength where the women are more homemakers than warriors. Due to that background I just feel that Boromir would regard women (and children, because he sees Cornelia as a youngster) as delicate or at least not war-worthy. Cornelia is going to challenge that notion in unexpected ways.**

 **Antoninsh: Yeah—Boromir just needs to learn to trust Cornelia. More than anything, the Fellowship are weary of her. She says and does strange things but Gandalf likes her so what can they do?**

 **Thanks for all the faves and follows!**

* * *

Chapter 8

The Fellowship rests for a while, though I have trouble sleeping in the stifling pitch blackness. I'm the kind of person who still sleeps with a nightlight, in the event of a nightlight being invented.

It wasn't so difficult sleeping in the dark open sky fields of Hollin—there were stars and the moon, not so different from camping on Earth. The ground was a little hard, yes—but anyone could sleep after hours and hours of walking without stop.

My only consolation was knowing Legolas didn't exactly sleep, and could probably still faintly see in the dark. So I managed to drift off a little, stirring at every shift and snore from the men around me, and every drip and drop from the cold cave walls.

Gandalf eventually rises, before the others to have a quick draw on his pipe. I wonder just how much pipe weed he brought with himself, or if he smokes the dried grass from Hollin now.

I get up and sit next to him, basking in the dim magical glow he has summoned from the crystal in his staff.

"You remind me of Tom Bombadil," he says abruptly. "Humming and singing your little tunes to pass the time and easy the journey . . . great stories you tell as well—Bilbo would have most enjoyed your company."

I wait and he doesn't begin to explain who Tom Bombadil or Bilbo are, and no one has brought them up to me before. I meet his eyes and see that he smirks, and I realize that he isn't as ignorant of my appearance as he makes believe. He _knows_ I _know_ who he speaks of.

"Do you fear what is to come, or simply what the darkness hides?"

I swallow. "I am no lover of dark places."

"And what would you do to chase away this darkness?"

I consider for a moment, the most obvious answer coming to my lips. "I would light a fire."

"I would have thought you would sing," he laughs. "It seems you are not just an idle hand, Cornelia Blake."

I'm not quite sure what he meant to say to me, and figure this is just one of his many riddling wizard speaks that he has sprung on me—or maybe just a compliment? I only half understand the stuff he says that I've heard before, and understand less than half the half of things I haven't heard before.

* * *

"The wealth of Moria is not in gold, or jewels, but in mithril."

Gandalf swings his staff underhand, lighting the glitter of silver veins in the mines below. I pitch my hand on Pippin's shoulder to keep him from falling in. He's not fully fed or awake, thus twice as clumsy as he usually is.

I lean in a bit too far as well, admiring the glowing metal.

I'm not usually one for jewellery, preferring to be unadorned by cumbersome chains and rings. But mithril—mithril is something I might like to wear. The versatility and beauty, not to mention the strength, makes me suddenly _very_ envious of Frodo's hidden mithril armour.

"Bilbo had a shirt of mithril rings given to him by Thorin."

"That is a kingly gift," Gimli praises.

"Yes." Gandalf agrees. "I never told him, but its worth was greater than that of the Shire!"

Frodo has the decency to look distinctly rustled, feeling the hem of his shirt. I knowingly smile at him, and he lets out a small grin.

We reach a particularly treacherous walkway, walking single file over it. Pippin slips on the large steps and Merry grabs his arm, boosting him up over the next step.

I navigate my feet carefully, avoiding broken steps as well as I can. There's abandoned mining gear scaling the walls on either side—mostly pulleys and little open elevators. They follow tunnels and drop into the incalculable depths of Moria.

Frodo is the next to stumble, landing hard on his front, the Ring somehow slipping over his head again. It must really have a will of its own, I think.

It hits the step next to me and bounces, heading straight over the ledge. Frodo gasps, reaching for it, but Sam holds him back from tossing himself into the darkness with it. So I stretch out lightning quick, grabbing the end of the chain midair in one hand—just one foot anchored in a cracked step, the other halfway over the edge.

The Ring slides to the end of the chain and stops, pulling like a deadweight. My anchored foot slips and the ledge breaks under my other foot, pulling me over and into empty air.

My stomach drops as I tumble through the air for a fraction of a moment before my ass hits an angled landing. I roll wildly, head over heels—arms and legs drawn to my chest. I hear the Fellowship yelling after me for a moment, before it fades to an echoing clamour, ears ringing.

I slide to a stop, head spinning and eyes rolling. All at once I ache and am aware of knicks and bruises; the worst a readily bleeding cut on my forehead. Nothing's broken, I dare to guess, clamping one hand to my forehead while checking my worse pains over with the other.

Panic sets in as I shake my vision clear, still blinded by lightless eyes. Gandalf's light is nowhere to be seen, but there is a faint glow to the far, far, left. It's a natural kind of light, and I gather that it must be Mazarbul, the Chamber of Records. It's daylight outside and maybe our last day inside Moria.

"Corn-nelia!" I hear distantly. It sounds like Pippin stage whispering. I haven't fallen too far, then.

I'm about to reply, but the silhouette of Gollum passes ahead of me. He doesn't seem to have found where I've landed yet. He's searching though, and it won't take him long to find me—not when I have the Ring.

I look at it, tightly balled in my fist, golden chain hanging out. I don't know whether I should risk putting it down or hold it tightly.

There's a flash and I see fire: a grotesque and fiery giant fighting with a grey robed man. Gandalf fighting the Balrog.

"Tell me something I don't know," I groan sarcastically.

A sharp pain knocks me flat on my back and I struggle to sit up against it, to no avail.

I see Isengard, fires burning brightly in the night.

Inside one of the many open mined pits is a great winged dragon; its chest glowing as it breathes fire onto the bellows. It is chained—spikes driven through clawed hind legs and rotting wings.

He opens a scaly eyelid, one cloudy eye focusing on me, and snarls his broken toothed snout-hissing with a forked tongue. His voice cuts through my head, though I cannot tell if he speaks through the mouth or not.

"What are you looking at, mortal?"

He is angered by my presence but not for disturbing him; rather, for seeing his state of being. Tears well up in my eyes against the heat and pain that this monstrous beast breathes. I'm terrified, and yet my heart hurts immensely for him.

If dragons could frown, this dragon does so now. I reach out, my hand so small in comparison to the colossal visage in front of me.

" _What do you desire?_ " The Ring whispers.

I blink, still taking in the form of the dragon.

The Ring, I imagine, is grasping at straws. I said 'tell me something I don't know' and it did. But it doesn't seem to know what to show me to best use me. After all, how can it know what I desire most—let alone comprehend it—when I am not from this world?

"There's nothing you can give to me that I don't already have." I reply, hearing myself speak aloud somewhere far away.

The Ring grows hot in my hand, angrily shrieking at me, as though to throw a tantrum. It rips itself away from my mind so viciously that I feel that my head will throb for weeks.

"Cornelia?"

I open my eyes. Aragorn's and Legolas' faces are lit above me by the pale light of Gandalf's magical staff. God bless his pointy hat.

They help me sit up and I meet the gazes of the faces around me.

Boromir stands furthest away, glaring at me. His eyes are locked on the hand that I cover the ring with. Frodo is nervously standing by Gandalf, also fixated on the Ring, waiting as patiently as he can for me to relinquish it back to him.

I think he tries so hard to be responsible for it—so that no one else will need to bear its burden. And he is already so conscious of what it does to the people around him.

So I force my hand to open, as painful as it feels.

The Ring's inscription glows faintly, and my eyebrows crinkle. My hand is blistered from the heat of it, and that's why it hurts so much.

"I cannot hold it any longer." I rasp, attempting to clear my throat while biting my tongue against the sharp pain. "It will not avow me as its bearer."

Frodo quickly steps forward to take the Ring back as I offer it up, nearly tossing it at him. It does not burn Frodo.

Blood suddenly drips off the tip of my nose, though not from the now clotted wound on my forehead. I wipe my nose on the back of my hand and gawk at the blood for a moment. I've somehow developed a rather nasty nose bleed.

* * *

 **Questions, comments, concerns? Review :D**


	9. Chapter 9

**Lothelen: Thanks for the review, as always! I'm not entirely sure about Boromir/OC in Cornelia's case, as she is twenty years younger than him and from a world of very different social conventions. But, if it's meant to be—love will find a way! That's how I feel about it anyways. Tee-hee!**

 **I feel like I'm going to get a lot of flak for Boromir later w**

 **Antoninsh: I'm so happy when I see you and Lothelen review! My two loyal reviewers! =3=**

 **KiyaJinnSkywalkerKenobi: Thanks for the compliments to me and mine! A couple people have mentioned OC/Boromir and while I'm not sure if that ship will fly, I am willing to listen to the opinions of all my readers in regards to it :)**

 **EGGS: Thank you! Hope you enjoy this chapter too!**

* * *

Chapter 9

"You gave us a right good scare, lassie." Gimli chides, handing me back my bag, which they have evidently found on the way down.

Aragorn checks me over for sprains and other debilitating injuries with gentle hands; cleaning dirt out of the broken skin on my forehead before staunching the bleeding with a piece of my ruined tablecloth.

"You were lucky, my friend. A fall like that could have easily killed you."

My lip twitches and I can't help but jokingly foreshadow the future. "Something so simple as a fall won't kill either of us."

He raises a thin eyebrow but brushes the casual remark aside. He takes everything I say or do with a grain of salt; though he sometimes discusses it with Legolas, I think—in Sindarin.

"What possessed you to jump?" Legolas questions, almost crossing his arms. He's thoroughly upset with me.

"We never would have found it again," I answer—I'm not having him mad at me over something so silly. "Not until it was in the hands of the enemy, that is."

No one has mentioned 'the enemy' specifically. They've avoided saying Sauron at all costs, and only briefly mentioned Saruman and his spies. Now, they glance around at each other, abashed.

Not Boromir though. He narrows his eyes at me and voices himself suspiciously.

"You knew about the Ring, all this time?"

"Yes."

"And what else do you know?" he growls.

"That you miss your brother—more than you already miss your home."

He takes an angry step towards me and Aragorn steps between us, making a shushing gesture at me.

"You—"

I cut him off, pushing myself to my feet.

"You fear you will not return home, and that your father will never acknowledge your little brother as he should."

Aragorn speaks a warning to me in Elvish, forgetting I don't know it—or maybe assuming I do.

"You do not believe this is a quest you can see to completion, and thus you do not trust any but the eight others who swore to aid Frodo, the One Ring-Bearer."

He gaps at me, and I stand as resolutely tall as I can at five foot nothing.

"I was not sent here to be sneered at by the Captain of the White Tower!"

Boromir clamps his teeth together, stunned. No one has referred to him as that in my presence, and I wonder if I used the wrong title.

I relax my posture just a touch, and speak softly. "I will help you however I can, Boromir, as I would anyone else here."

* * *

My fall turns out to have saved us some time figuring out where to go next. The mining chute tossed me right out on the doorstep of the Dwarven city of Dwarrowdelf.

Gimli remains silent as the city, looking about with misty eyes, and we follow Gandalf's weary lead towards the light of Mazarbul.

I spot an intact torch and hanging string of flint, lighting it with a quick strike and spark. Gandalf shakes his head a little at me, probably remembering I'm more than a little scared of the dark.

It's a hefty thing, potentially a good weapon. The flint stone is pretty sharp too.

Gimli begins to run and I breathe deeply through my blood crusted nostrils. Athletes breathe deeply to infuse their blood with oxygen, right? Or was that for focus? Either way, I really need to concentrate on not wasting more of my blood.

Gimli wails suddenly and I unwillingly enter the Chamber of Records, listening carefully for any suspect noises.

Legolas has the sense to prod us on with a quiet 'we cannot stay here' though Gandalf is willing to allow Gimli a moment of mourning for his cousin Balin, while he investigates an old book, reading aloud to our eerie discomfort.

I do consider stopping Pippin from initiating the next act but hold myself steady. I think this event is very much meant to happen, and that stopping it could cripple the Fellowship's goal. I just hope I won't be skewered.

Pippin holds Gandalf's hat and I stand far away from him, not wanting to receive any blame for his clumsiness. I look away when he starts to pick at the skeleton and try not to feel like a terrible friend.

The skeleton falls backwards into the well and I cringe, everyone glaring at him while collectively holding their breath.

Nothing is heard after a long moment and Gandalf angrily slams the book shut, stamping over to Pip and grabbing his hat back.

"Throw yourself in next time, and rid us of your stupidity!"

Any minute now. I adjust my bag and pick up an abandoned Orcish scimitar from a pile of weapons. Legolas furrows his brows at me, wondering what's wrong with me.

The first drum sounds and his expression turns hard, and more than a little surprised.

Sam notices Sting glowing before anyone else. "Mister Frodo! Your sword!"

Everyone jumps to battle positions, Boromir sticking his head out the door and nearly getting an eye out. Aragorn orders the Hobbits to stick by Gandalf and rushes to help Boromir bar the door.

"They have a Cave Troll!" He shouts, as though shocked Orcs would have a Cave Troll in a cave.

Swords are drawn and axes are hefted. Aragorn and Legolas notch arrows to their bows and take aim at the buckling door. I hold the torch in one hand and the scimitar in the other, swallowing down a bout of nausea.

"There's one dwarf in Moria who draws breath still!" Gimli howls.

The doors burst open and arrows fly; Gimli crouches, ready to lops off heads as they come. All hell breaks loose and I'd like for there to be a sideline to sit on, but Goblins, Orcs—whatever they are—obviously don't care for sidelines.

They're the ugliest creatures I've ever seen, I decide. Patchy skin and hair; greasy and stinky with bad teeth—the yellowest teeth; and the worse personalities, too.

Happily for me, they are not the most competent thinkers. Not this lot, at least. They are fairly predictable in their moves. The scimitar I've picked up isn't that sharp though, and plenty awkward in my left hand.

I honestly do more damage with the torch. The Orcs by no means enjoy a hot flame under their noses.

The Cave Troll is on the other side of the room, chasing the Hobbits round and round. I spot Boromir recovering from a none-too-gentle toss.

Sam is doing a surprisingly good job with his frying pan. I can see now why they chose a frying pan for Eugene to wield in Disney's _Tangled_. It's downright hilarious to watch.

Merry and Pippin aren't doing quite so great, and Gandalf has his own opponents to deal with. I struggle enough on my own; holding the three that jeer at me at bay by threat of fiery pain.

An idea pops into my head and I drop the scimitar, reaching my freed hand into the outside pocket of my canvas bag.

It's still there—a small shaker of cornstarch. I used to use it to soften embroidery floss or stiff cloth, making stitching easier, among other things. Now, I twist the cap off with teeth, pouring some into my mouth. I've only done this two or three times before, as a party trick for drunk people.

I hold the torch out from my mouth and blow with pursed lips, bursts of flames licking over the Orcs in front of me.

It doesn't really do much damage, but they startle back so quickly that they bowl over two of the Orcs fighting Merry and Pippin. I throw back more cornstarch and spit a few more balls of fire, frightening the Orcs.

It might have been hysterical, if I weren't so worried the Orcs would realize it was a fairly harmless trick.

I pass Merry and Pippin, who's jaws are dropped and eyes awed.

The Troll grabs Frodo in my peripheral and I pause, unsure of how to best intervene.

Aragorn rushes over as the Troll loses its hold on Frodo, dropping him on his back, and Aragorn stabs a large wooden stake into the Troll's abdomen.

Its hide is so thick that it does very little damage, but serves to rile it up even more. Merry and Pippin throw broken bricks at its head, which bounce off with even less effect.

Aragorn gets tossed across the room, flying a lot further than a Barbie doll tossed by a toddler. Frodo scurries after him, under the sweeping slashes of Orcs, concerned more with Aragorn's wellbeing than his own.

I distract the Troll with fire, dancing between Orcs with outstretched arms and weapons. The Troll takes them out and Frodo reaches Aragorn, shifting him onto his back.

I run out of cornstarch and the Troll crashes towards me, swinging its chain while screeching deafeningly.

I soccer slide between its legs, springing up and pressing the torch to the back of its knee. It screams and falls to one knee, swinging an arm and I narrowly avoid getting back handed, the wind alone swaying me off my feet.

Legolas shoots an arrow into the Troll's mouth and it goes down after a strangled groan.

We both search for Frodo with our eyes, not in time to prevent him from being stabbed by an Orc. Frodo gasps and falls on his face but the Orc stares at its broken blade with apparent confusion.

Legolas fires an arrow through its neck before it can gather its senses and strike for a more vulnerable spot.

Sam, Gandalf, and Boromir, rush over to Frodo. Aragorn stirs enough to crawl to where Frodo has fallen—Gimli hacks away at the remaining Orcs with a vengeance and Merry and Pippin aid him however they can.

"Frodo!" Sam bawls. "Mister Frodo!"

Aragorn, shaking off a concussion—because that's how Aragorn does things—turns Frodo over.

Frodo takes a sputtering breath and grabs his chest, hardly believing himself alive.

"He's alive!" Sam cries, hurrying to pull Frodo to his feet.

"I'm alright—I'm not hurt."

"You should be dead," Aragorn says. "You were stabbed by an Orcish blade."

Gandalf's eyes twinkle with a keen realization. "I think there's more to this Hobbit than meets the eyes."

Frodo pulls his shirt collar down to reveal the shining armour.

"Mithril!" Gimli exclaims. "You are full of surprises, Master Baggins!"

There's no time for us to stand around gaping at Frodo's mithril armour though. More Orcs are approaching.

"To the Bridge of Khazad-dum!"

* * *

 **Thanks for reading!**


	10. Chapter 10

**Lothelen: All will be revealed in due time! I'm a firm believer of saving my words for when I really need them.**

 **KiyaJinnSkywalkerKenobi: I'm glad the last chapter was one of almost laughs :) it seems Boromir is getting the most votes for Cornelia's hand, and in general is the favourite to be commented on! I'm surprised by how popular he is.**

 **Antoninsh: Cornelia only has her wits and endurance to depend on in a fight, right now, so her best bet is running away XD**

 **Evangeline Pond: That's exactly what Aragorn does XD he shakes off serious injuries like 'whatevs' all the time. Glad you guys found that funny!**

 **angel897: Glad you've enjoyed reading!**

* * *

Chapter 10

Orcs swarm the halls of Moria, coming out from cracks in the floor, walls, and ceiling. It's rather intense and I'm very glad that there are no Orc archers chasing us, yet.

I run in line with Gandalf, the Hobbits racing on ahead of us. I'm impressed by how fleet of foot they are, when their lives are in danger.

But I know this is a situation that cannot be outrun. Our escape routes are cut off by the sheer number of Orcs and we huddle together in a rough circle, like bison surrounded by wolves, protecting Frodo and the Ring inside the formation.

The Fellowship hold their weapons ready, determined to at least try to fight their way out of this situation.

I feel a hot wind blow at my back and shiver, willing myself to look ahead and not behind. A roar like distant thunder cuts through the chattering of the thousand Orcs and they fall silent, all turning to the source.

"Ha!" Gimli grins, slashing his axe at the Orcs as they back away. The roaring returns, louder, and the Orcs shriek and run away, terror colouring their faces. Gimli laughs.

Boromir turns towards the hot wind, face lit by the glowing embers at the back of the halls, and whispers fearfully. "What is this new devilry?"

Gandalf pinches his eyes shut and trembles. "A Balrog: demon of the ancient world. This foe is beyond any of you. Run! Quickly!"

We run as one until we all heave for breath, air scorching our lungs. We enter a narrow passageway, leading down narrower steps, faintly lit by the approaching fiery monster.

"Watch out!" I shriek, giving pause to Boromir before he can fall off the broken steps. He looks back, mouth slack, eyes surprised and immensely grateful.

"Lead them on, Aragorn. The bridge is near." Aragorn makes to argue and Gandalf pushes him on. "Do as I say! Swords are no more use here!"

My stomach flutters as I allow myself to advance to the front of the pack, guiding the Hobbits. They slow behind me as they spot the gap in the stairs, and I speed up. I close my eyes on the last step and leap, feet ready to hit the landing. Legolas says a short oath in Sindarin, jumping after me.

I stumble and he rights me with a firm tug before turning around and beckoning Gandalf over.

An arrow whizzes past, stinging my ear. I feel blood drip down my neck, ear burning, but don't bother to check it. Adrenaline masks the hurt.

Boromir jumps over with Merry and Pippin and stands between me and the Hobbits as more arrows split the air. He knocks arrows away with his sword before catching Sam as Aragorn throws him across the chasm.

I hear Gimli shout 'Nobody tosses a dwarf!' and roll my eyes.

"Not the beard!"

The stairs crumble behind his jump and Frodo and Aragorn scramble back. Pippin grips my hand, watching on with choking anxiety. A rock drops from the ceiling and my free hand flies to cover a scream from my mouth.

It lands behind them, separating the stairs they stand on into a single pillar. It trembles, swaying from the lack of support and Aragorn holds Frodo to him, manoeuvring their weight carefully.

"Steady!" Aragorn calls and Legolas watches the pillar with sharper eyes.

"Now!" Legolas encourages.

The stairs crash against our side of the stairs and I nearly fall over from the vibration. Legolas and Boromir steady them as they jump off the crumbling stone and we all charge headlong down the steps again.

"Over the bridge!" Gandalf orders, stopping to let us pass him by.

I pause and meet his gaze, touching his arm lightly. He impatiently shoos me on and I let go, chest aching. I know he'll return to us, but at great cost to himself—and it's selfish of me to wish there was another way.

Frodo quickly sees that Gandalf is no longer with us and turns back, shouting to him.

"Gandalf!"

A powerful light emanates from his staff, bathing the bridge in a white glow. He speaks, but I cannot hear him over the roaring fire from the approaching Balrog, or the pulsating throb in my ears.

The Balrog swings its sword and Gandalf breaks it into pieces with Glamdring, shattered fragments flying away around us.

"You . . . shall not . . . PASS!"

Gandalf strikes his staff against the bridge with a resonating clack and the Balrog steps forward—bridge disintegrating under it.

It topples into the abyss, lighting the dark pit as it does, and Gandalf stays where he stands without moving an inch. He's too tired to move, I realize.

I meet his eyes from across the distance and he seems to read on my face the horror that is about to occur. The corner of his lip turns up and the Balrog's whip snaps the air, lassoing his ankle.

He holds on long enough to deliver his final line as Gandalf the Grey.

"Fly, you fools!"

Frodo bawls, struggling against Boromir's restraining hold, and Gandalf falls.

All of us remain frozen—shocked—before the Orcs resume firing arrows again and Aragorn ushers us on, practically shoving us along.

Legolas takes out most of the Orc archers as we run, and those that remain are such poor shots that we are in little danger from them. We reach the East Gate of Moria and charge into the blindingly bright light.

We don't stop immediately outside the mines, but continue until someone drops; namely Pippin.

I stand in a daze, panting—tears stinging dry eyes. My legs buckle and I land heavily on my knees, small rocks digging into my stained leggings. Nearby, Pippin lies in a heap crying, Merry consoling him quietly through his own tears. Sam sits with his head in his hands, weeping bitterly.

"Legolas, get them up," Aragorn commands, checking his sword and equipment over. Legolas' expression is taken aback, both by Gandalf's passing and Aragorn's words.

Boromir slams his shield down. "Give them a moment, for pity's sake!"

He stomps over to me and kneels, twisting my head gently. I'm confused for a moment but remember my ear, tingling with sharp pricks of pain.

"These hills will be swarming with Orcs come nightfall!" Aragorn snaps. "We must reach the Woods of Lothlórien. Come, Boromir, Legolas. Gimli, get them up."

Boromir ignores Aragorn and passes me a handkerchief, unspoiled by the journey—and quite possibly a token from a court lady of Gondor. He makes me press it to my ear with numb hands.

"You'll have bled away any poison," he informs quietly. "Wounds from Orc fired arrows are no small thing."

Aragorn busily forces the Hobbits up and onto their feet while Boromir tends to me, looking around for Frodo. I tilt my head and see that Frodo cries by himself a few paces away.

I wish I could console them all somehow, but Gandalf is well and truly on his way to dying—and being reincarnated into a better Istari.

And there are no words I can speak to convey that.

* * *

 **Thanks for reading and reviewing, and for the influx of favourites and follows!**


	11. Chapter 11

**angel897: Thanks very much for the review!**

 **Hoisne: Thanks XD glad it isn't totally stupid.**

 **Antoninsh: Boromir's'all good. He wasn't even that mean to being with ;P**

 **KiyaJinnSkywalkerKenobi: Boromir enjoys the attention too! Thanks for reviewing :)**

 **Lothelen: OMG love the review about falling straight into Wormtongue's greasy arms! I still don't know where I'm going with Cornelia's possible relationships but I do particularly love Boromir, Éomer, and Thranduil~ However, I feel that Éomer is well suited to his intended to be and that Elves only love once, and that Thranduil already loved. Though I know for sure Cornelia would drive Thranduil nuts and bolts crazy if they ever met.**

 **princesaangelbebe: Thanks for the review! I'm surprised to get a review so long after last posting a chapter!**

 **Ninjagirl2211: Thanks for the review! Glad you like the way Cornelia conducts herself ^^ It really seems to be _The Fire Breather's_ selling point :O once again, I'm surprised by receiving reviews so long after last updating. Your concern is touching :)**

 **In general, sorry for the unannounced hiatus, but that is how most my hiatus' go.**

* * *

Chapter 11

* * *

We enter the Woods of Lothlórien, all of us agog by the sheer size of the trees—even Legolas looks upon it as though he has seen nothing like it before, and appears as though his body wishes to relax, but doesn't.

Aragorn listens carefully to the creaking trees, treading lightly and periodically checking over us as we follow.

"Stay close, young Hobbits! They say there is a great sorceress living in these woods—an Elf-witch of great and terrible power, and all who look upon her fall under her spell . . ."

I see Legolas come close to rolling his eyes, but otherwise pretends to not hear Gimli.

Frodo startles suddenly and looks about with darting gestures, blinking his eyes fast and fluttery like.

"And are never seen again . . !" Gimli finishes dramatically. I roll my eyes this time.

"Mr. Frodo?" Sam asks, concerned. His face is still blotchy from crying.

I look about as discretely as I can as to not alarm the already on edge Aragorn. He seems to be catching on that I sometimes know things before they happen, and I expect he knows only because Legolas has told him so. Nothing gets past Legolas.

Which is why, try as I might, I do not see the Galadhrim sneaking up on us, and neither does Legolas.

"Well, here's one dwarf she won't ensnare so easily. I have the eyes of a hawk and the ears of a fox!"

There's a flurry of movement amongst the trees at that comment and suddenly there are arrows pointed at all of us, at least one for each head—and three or four for Gimli's. Legolas has managed to draw his bow with equal speed but puts it down, accepting the futility.

"The Dwarf breathes so loudly that we could have shot him in the dark,"

I recognize Haldir for his silky voice and pale blonde hair. On his left and right are Orophin and Rumil, though I don't know which is which, just that they should be his brothers.

The Elves seem to hear a distant sound and Haldir has the elves lower their bows. "We will not speak here, for danger seeks you."

We are all tired and weary and even Gimli does not protest as they lead us deeper into the forest that is their home. He does make a derisive noise at the tree they force us to climb, providing only a ladder to help the vertically challenged Dwarf and Hobbits.

Haldir leaves without a word to us, only instructing that water and bread be given to us in Elvish. I am beginning to pick some words up, and while I only understood the word for water, as Legolas and Aragorn have frequently discussed where they would collect water before, I can now assume I know the word for bread as well—as that is what we are given to eat.

One of the Elves offers me a dampened cloth and clean length of gauze for my ear, which I think is rather kind coming from ones who naturally distrust those who are not Elvish. I see that he is younger than the rest of his company, though he is physically no different from the others.

Aragorn assists me in cleaning the wound, which stings enough to bring tears to my eyes. My teeth soon ache from clenching and I unthinkingly raise a hand up to feel the wound, and Aragorn slaps my hand down.

"You must not touch it."

"Is it bad?" I ask. Of course it is.

"It is split," Aragorn warns. "It may not heal completely together."

He folds and presses the gauze to it, and instructs me to hold it there, warning that wrapping it to my head isn't a good idea in too many words.

* * *

It's near dark by the time Haldir returns and I feel that I've nodded off during the interim without much struggle. I yawn and sit up right, shoulders drawn in against the cold intrusion of night.

He greets Legolas first. "Mae govannen, Legolas Thranduilion."

"Govannas vîn gwenne le, Haldir o Lórien."

He shifts on his heel, a near perfect quarter turn that is showy but not over done and I marvel at the technical grace of the Elves. Its a real shame that they don't seem keen on dancing in public.

"A Aragorn in Dúnedain istannen le ammen."

"Haldir," Aragorn returns.

Gimli is plainly upset by the use of Sindarin and saves no time in letting us all know as much. "So much for the legendary courtesy of the Elves! Speak words we all can understand!"

I think to myself that Gimli must realize they were only making introductions, but is still offended on principal.

Haldir is hardly put off by Gimli's outburst. His expression barely changes.

"We have not had dealings with the Dwarves since the Dark Days."

"And do you know what this Dward says to that? Ishkhaqwi ai durugnul!"

Aragorn roughly grabs Gimli's shoulder. "That was not so courteous."

Haldir ignores Gimli either way, giving him no more than a short glare down his nose. He moves precisely two steps, directly in front of Frodo. Now, his expression changes.

"You bring great evil with you." He looks around, not precisely worriedly, but maybe with an edge of suspicion. "You can go no further."

Merry and Pippin don't like that much and settle for looking accusingly at the Ring—and not at Frodo, I hope.

Aragorn is nearing the edge of his patience with physical fatigue and mental weariness catching up. They argue and I rest my forehead against my knees, letting them battle it out.

Boromir claps Frodo on the shoulder, sympathetically. "Gandalf's death was not in vain, nor would he have you give up now. You carry a heavy burden, Frodo—don't carry the weight of the dead too."

I think that he speaks from experience here and briefly wonder what happened for him to have such words to say. But I, and Haldir and Aragorn too, are interrupted as an elf drops onto the platform, hurriedly relaying something in Sindarin.

We're instructed to be silent by Haldir and Aragorn respectively.

Moments later Orcs pass under the trees and Haldir signals for the Lórien Elves to take them out. It takes only a minute for them to decimate the party of Orcs, and I can't help but be impressed by their cohesion.

"Orcs rarely venture this deeply into the Golden Wood." Haldir considers, pondering silently for a long minute. "You will follow me."

* * *

He allows us rest until the dawning light, during which a time we don't so much sleep as we sit in mournful silence.

Even I have little interest in sleeping, worrying about how Galadriel may or may not interpret me. She's not exactly the kind of Elf you'd want breathing down your neck, and at that thought I wonder if she can't already hear or spy on my thoughts, as I felt that maybe she had already made contact with Frodo the day before. What an unnerving thought to have—don't think about anything weird!

At about mid morning we are suddenly stopped by our Elvish shepherds. I was really hoping that they would omit this whole part.

"The Dwarf must be blindfolded from this point on."

I think that Haldir is just intentionally being mean at this point—and being tired and in more than a little pain from my ear and recently twisted ankle, I feel like being a bit of prick too.

Gimli, of course, makes a stink about it and Haldir replies that no Dwarf has ever seen the way to Caras Galadhon.

Legolas gives a full on eye roll at this, making an interesting twist in his eyebrows as he does. I laugh aloud before I can stop myself.

Haldir glares and I don't even pretend to stop smiling at the sight I just witnessed.

"I fail to see what is so laughable."

"I'm sure King Thranduil felt similarly about Greenwood before thirteen Dwarves took a leisurely cruise down the Forest River in wine barrels."

"And one Hobbit," Pipping chimes. Frodo smiles and Legolas quirks an eyebrow at me, not quite smiling—though I can tell he wants to.

Haldir's jawline visibly hardens in response to my gibe and I hold my hand out for a blindfold.

He hides his confusion at my sudden gesture well enough that I ignore the way he sizes me up, looking long and hard at the miniscule hairs on my face. "You are no Dwarf."

"Are you sure about that? I am pretty short."

Gimli busts a gut and I'm sure I'm looking very impressed with my witty self. Aragorn has tensed his shoulders and I swear he is restraining himself from banging his head against the nearest tree.

"We will all go blindfolded," he declares too quickly, before I can be a smart ass again.

So we all are blindfolded and led to Caras Galadhon, with no short amount of angry grunts and curses as the forest attempts to kill us with tree roots and twisted ankles and the occasional face plant into a mossy path.

We are eventually stopped and the blindfolds are permitted off by Haldir's order. We give a collective blink against the sudden light and Haldir turns to see our expressions, waving his arm gracefully at the sight ahead of us.

"Caras Galadhon—heart of Elvendom on Middle Earth, realm of Lord Celeborn and of Galadriel, Lady of Light." Haldir introduces proudly. "Welcome."

* * *

 **Sorry for the very long wait!**


	12. Chapter 12

**Ninjagirl2211: Thanks for the speedy response to my latest chapter! Everything is going okay on my end, and even better than okay now that I'm in the mood to write again!**

 **KiyaNamiel: I approve the name change, though I would have thought you'd keep with the Star Wars aspect now that the new movie is here ;) I haven't watched it yet so no spoilers!**

 **I'm glad you like the Dwarf related banter ^^ in regards to her wound—it's addressed more in this chapter—and given their earlier circumstances I doubt Aragorn would of been all, "One minute guys, gotta find some Kingsfoil for my good peep Cornelia over here."**

 **A split ear is kinda the least of their concerns—and usually isn't all that bad of a wound to begin with. I was with my cousin when she got into a fight and had her earring ripped out of her ear—definitely very bloody and probably very painful (given the amount of cursing and screaming she did) but she lived and didn't even go to the hospital—hers did heal back together though.**

 **QuirkyKirsty: I don't know if I would call this SI, as Cornelia Blake is my brother's Dungeons and Dragons character/persona ;) I thought the story he invented for her would be interesting to play out through a LoTR fanfiction ^^ and I'm glad you enjoyed the fire breathing skill, as she originally was a thief class character with a background in circus performances.**

 **And a big thank you to everyone who has recently favourited and followed The Fire Breather! Thank you all!**

* * *

Chapter 12

* * *

Haldir wastes no time in taking us to be presented to Galadriel and Celeborn. I assume this is because Galadriel has told him to do so, but don't recall Haldir reacting in any way to some mental summons. I assume after years and years of being commanded wordlessly with Galadriel's strange telepathic abilities there is nothing new for him to react to now.

So we are brought through open stairwells and corridors that offer barely any railing to hold onto, or walls to afford privacy for that matter. Not that the privacy matters, as the Elves around us aren't concerned with us and just go about their own business, hardly glancing over—or if they are they do it discretely enough that mortal eyes can't possibly notice.

Finally, we enter a round and guarded platform, complete with walls and a ceiling-and at the center is a great silver pillar; a Mallorn tree.

And it's very silent, not quite night or day yet, the light only just taking on a grey twilight glow through the carefully disguised natural windows. We look at each other for a moment, wondering if it's acceptable to greet the Lord and Lady of Lothlórien in our battle stained attire.

The stairway wound about the Mallorn tree suddenly brightens and two angelic figures descend, impossibly tall by my short standards. The long robes they wear are like liquid starlight, shimmering with radiant energy that flickers and swirls with each movement they make.

I'm an awe of their combined artistic chemistry and can think of no other couple—real or fictional—that can compare to them right now.

However, when I rest my eyes on Galadriel I find that she is at once overwhelmingly underwhelming. She is beautiful, yes, and exudes power and confidence as I could never hope to match, but I am not struck where I stand. Or overwhelmed to the point that I tremble such as Gimli does; or so terrified that sweat gathers on my brows as Boromir has; or shocked to complete and silent stillness as Legolas is.

Truthfully, I was expecting to feel something magical, but I do not.

Celeborn takes one step closer to us than Galadriel, looking over our faces with the faintest crease between his eyebrows, his face otherwise wrinkle free—despite the grave expression and wealthy age that seems glued to his skin.

"Nine there were, and nine there are, yet I do not look upon the one I wish to see. Tell me, where is Gandalf? For I much desire to speak with him . . ."

Frodo looks up from his feet, meeting the eyes of the Lady of Light, guiltily.

"Gandalf did not pass the boarders of this land." Galadriel speaks so silently that it is as though the words did not come from her mouth, rather formed themselves from the air around us. "He has fallen into shadow. . ."

My eyebrow crinkles and I look at Galadriel's face carefully. I distinctly feel that Galadriel is not completely convinced of his death and she meets my eyes fleetingly, smiling invisibly through them to me.

"He was taken both by Shadow and Flame, a Balrog of Morgoth." Legolas explains, not reading in the least what I have just seen from Galadriel's eyes. "For we went needlessly into the net of Moria."

The Fellowship deflate at Legolas' words, Frodo in particular, and I feel like pinching the pretty Elf's arm. Hard.

"Needless were none of the deeds of Gandalf in life." She speaks soothingly. "We do not yet know his full purpose," she hints, looking straight at me again.

She seems to call Gimli to attention, as he suddenly looks up at her with teary eyes.

"Do not let the great emptiness of Khazad-dûm fill your heart Gimli, son of Glóin. For the world has grown full of peril, and in all the lands, love is now mingled with grief."

She looks to Boromir next, and I'm not surprised to see her bore her gaze on him with sudden intensity, though I dislike the way he begins to shake and tremble. He fearfully turns his eyes elsewhere, and Galadriel only slowly moves on.

I pout a little and she ignores me—I'm not sure whether to be angry at what words she might have uttered into Boromir's mind, or to be jealous that she has not spoken to me in such a way.

Celeborn looks upon us again with much pity. "What now becomes of the Fellowship? Without Gandalf, hope is lost."

That offends me a little and I see that it strikes a cord with Aragorn as well, as his hands have become fisted.

"The quest stands upon the edge of a blade," Galadriel interrupts. "Stray but a little and it will fail, to the ruin of all . . . yet hope remains while the company is true."

I'm beginning to feel that Galadriel likes to test people for their reactions, as she watches us with great interest as her words throw our emotions on a roller-coaster ride.

"Do not let your hearts be troubled. Go now and rest, for your are weary with sorrow and much toil." She raises her hands, dismissing us. "Tonight, you will sleep in peace . . ."

* * *

I slept the moment they brought us to our temporary abode, an open pavilion amongst the trees with a beautiful fountain at the center and scattered couches with soft tenting. Even as I sleep I hear the singing of Elves and the soft spoken tones of the Fellowship around me—comforting me in such a way that I never expected from travelling in the company of eight men.

After waking in the morning dew, feeling much more alive and fifty million kinds of dirty I make my way to an area designated for bathing.

Unexpectedly, I don't receive much help from the Elves that wander about, until I speak up and suddenly there are three women trying to decide my wardrobe for me. I assume they didn't realize I was female until then, and wonder just how badly I must have looked prior to bathing.

They offer to style my hair for me, and I politely decline, and politely decline the dress they try to convince me to wear as well.

I muster my voice as best as I can—for these tall and beautiful women force me to take a swing at my self confidence. Their grace and poise is mesmerizing, and I can't help but blush when they hold dresses and gowns up to me.

"Can I have something a little plainer? Maybe something a bit boyish?"

The central figure lowers the dress she's been appraising. "You mean you would wish to wear mens clothing?"

I nod meekly and they look to one another.

"I think my little brother's clothes would fit if we hemmed the sleeves and legs, maybe brought the waist in as well."

They look at each other and are suddenly busying themselves with finding needles and threads, one running off to find her brother's clothes, I guess.

"Would you like for me to have a healer summoned? For your ear?"

I don't lower the damp cloth I've been holding to my ear this entire time, arm nearly numb, and consider. Elvish healing would likely return it the way it was prior to the Orcish arrow shredding it.

It doesn't much hurt—not so extremely that I want to cry at least. And I have a feeling such a visible battle scar might come in handy in this world, though it may inspire pity from some.

I consider again—if I don't accept now I'll probably have a split ear for the rest of my time here—maybe even return with a strange scar to my own world suddenly. Finally, I shrug. It might be kind of cool, which obviously suggests I'm not in my right mind. But, when am I ever?

"No. It doesn't bother me."

The she-Elf gives me a funny look. "Are you certain? It is no trouble,"

"I'm okay."

"Okay . . . ?"

* * *

Everyone is just sort of lazing around when I make it back to them, wearing my newly altered clothing. I was hoping to get an opinion on the clothing, as it belongs to a young Elfling. In particular I was hoping to see Legolas' expression, as he might have found it the least bit funny.

But they ignore me, recouping on their own in mournful silence. I lower the cold cloth from my ear, arm tingling, and lean against a tree for a moment.

Interestingly enough, they did not give me shoes to wear, and I inspect my bare feet now—bruised and blistered but otherwise okay. My clothing is excessively silver but that seems to be the popular style for masculinity amongst the Lothlórien Elves—or maybe just a device for blending in amongst the silver Mallorn trees.

I think, and if I remember correctly, the Fellowship spends about a month in the Golden Wood, and that the time can feel both long and short, thanks to Galadriel's magic combined with her Ring of Power, Nenya.

A lot can be learned in a month, and I'm determined to learn all that I can. Hopefully the time feels long for me. I push away from the tree and come to a stop a few feet in front of Aragorn, who dully smokes his pipe.

His eyes flick up and he barely touches his pipe back to his lips. "You should ask the Elves about healing your ear," he says simply.

"Um, sure," I lie, "but that's not what I was going to ask."

He looks up at me blankly, drawing a breath from his pipe. We've all bathed by now but I can see he's only engaged in the bare minimums of it. Great hygiene practices for the future King of Gondor.

I'm beginning to wonder what the hell he's smoking but remember that Lothlórien is supposed to have a soothing effect on the Fellowship. I guess I can't really blame him for wanting to take a break.

I'm too busy and pumped to languish away as he has chosen to do though.

"I was wondering if you'd show me how to better handle a sword?"

He shakes his head—which I really hope is more of a not-now kind of gesture. I look to Boromir, implying the same with a raised eyebrow.

He waves me off and lies on his other side, back to the rest of us. What a sulker!

I glance at Legolas and give up on him immediately. He sits with his back to a tree, legs crossed and eyes slightly out of focus. I'm guessing that's how Elves sleep.

Gimli is smoking as well, but lacks the faraway look that Aragorn is basking in. I plead with him silently, pulling my best puppy-dog face. He immediately grunts out a quick "Don't look at me."

I glower for a second at him, to which he suddenly becomes very interested in scanning the leaves at his feet.

"You people are useless!" I declare, stomping away to the sound of Sam's worried voice.

"Miss Corn-nelia?"

* * *

 **Hope you enjoyed this chapter!~**


	13. Chapter 13

**Thanks for reading, everybody! And thanks for all the new favourites and what not! It really makes my day~**

 **Sagitarscorpion1: I'm glad my story telling is doing it for you ^^ I would say that this is a case of the first person narrator being an unreliable narrator, as she often forgets her train of thought and does things that don't make sense (to the Fellowship) on purpose.**

 **Antonish: ! You're back ! Thanks for picking this dusty old story up again!~ Obviously I was suffering from a case of the Lothlórien lazy-ness too!**

 **princesaangelbebe: Cornelia is a tomboyish person, or rather its 2016 in her mind and she doesn't care if she's a girl or a boy, or if she has scars or wears dresses. But she can understand that she doesn't need to go endearing herself to the Fellowship as the picture of femininity. So the tear in her ear is a statement that she can handle pain and doesn't care about vain things like pretty Elven dresses and what not.**

 **In the books, Lothlórien eases the worries of the Fellowship, allowing them to rest and recuperate. They basically spend the entire month doing nothing, even to the point that they're not sure how much time they spent there. Lothlórien itself literally means 'dream flower'.**

* * *

Chapter 13

* * *

I stew as I walk through the low areas of Lothlórien.

It's not like me to lose my temper, but I'm beginning to think dying might be really bad—and that I'm not just going to wake up from it like a dream. So it's in my best interest to change myself a little, if I really want to survive in Middle Earth. No more dancing around and acting like a sooth sayer, for sure.

Learning how to use a weapon and other useful things is my top priority now, and I've only got a month or less to learn as much as I can. And unfortunately, I'm thinking horseback riding isn't going to be one of those things—there are no horses to be seen. Then again, I might not even make it to Rohan, the way things are going for me.

I want to change the way I look, literally and metaphorically, to the Fellowship. I want to become someone they can depend on a little. They ignore me way too much for my taste.

Physically, my appearance has changed a little. My hair is going wild these days, having grown an inch or so out of its previous neat bob, and the fire from the Balrog seems to have semi-permed it into curly disarray, singed locks included. The black hair dye has faded to almost nothing as well, reverting to a dark brown, not quite my original color, but close.

It's long enough to tie back again, though I find it won't all come together in a single ponytail yet, so I settle for tying the top half down and leave the rest free.

My next problem, actually learning how to be useful, isn't so easily solved.

It's absolutely imperative for me to learn how to defend myself and (possibly) help the others, both for the events leading up to the breaking of the Fellowship and beyond that too. I feel a definite headache starting from all my worrying.

Luckily, I spot Haldir fletching arrows on the veranda of a flet just a few feet off the ground. And by a few I mean about twenty. Probably thirty. And the only way up seems to be a very narrow set of steps, if you could call them that; they're little more than pegs spiralling up a tree trunk.

"Excuse me!" I call, but not too loudly, because Elves have excellent hearing. He doesn't reply, and I know it isn't because he didn't hear me. He's outright ignoring me.

"Right." I reign in my temper. No use getting mad at this point.

I climb the steps carefully, looking down just far enough to place my feet on the next step, but not enough to look through the empty space between those steps.

I fall at the last minute, smacking my knee off the next step and scraping my palms on the veranda, feeling one foot hang in the air. I'm frozen for a moment before I can gather myself up again and step numbly onto the veranda. It could have been worse—I could have slipped off the side or fallen through the steps. Not the smartest thing I've ever tried—but there was that time I jumped over an unfathomable chasm in Moria, so. . .

He looks over when I rest my hand against the wall of the flet, feeling just a little woozy from the sudden adrenaline crash. I really thought I was gonna fall for a moment there.

"Yes?" he asks, voice unimpressed.

"Oh. Well, I was just wondering if you would mind teaching me a bit about weapons. Anything at all really." I'm distinctly embarrassed to ask this of Haldir, who I barely know (and insulted the day before) but I don't let it show. I have a very good poker face, I decide.

He levels me with an icy blue eyed stare and I try not to hold my breath. Think poker face.

"Is that not the responsibility of your company?"

It kind of upsets me, but not in an angry kind of way. "They are resting and do not wish to be bothered."

He has the gall to smirk just the tinniest bit, reading my sudden insecurity. "Bothered by your lack of competence, perhaps?"

That makes me angry, more than angry—furious. I'm not incompetent, just a little unlearned. Haldir can clearly be an ass when he wants to be, not the best of his talents, for sure.

"I am not skilled in combat, nor in tracking," I try diplomatically. "But I am an emissary of the Valar no less." Oddly, I don't feel guilty for lying over something so important, and feel braver for saying so.

Maybe it was the Valar that brought me to Middle Earth. I don't remember anything happening between the time I went to sleep and reappeared in Arda after all. I may of said I misplaced myself but it certainly wasn't my doing. How could it have been?

He's turned fully towards me now, standing to tower over me.

"Is that so?" He asks, voice dripping disdain. "And who are you the emissary of?"

I open my mouth, a name caught in my throat, and stop. "I cannot say."

Haldir looks pleased with himself, as if he has caught me in my lie, and snorts silently. "I will not teach you."

* * *

 **I often portray the guys in LoTR as being antagonistic towards Cornelia, but a lot of it is to discourage her from being both naïve and stupid. Because face it; they don't think any woman can be a warrior.**

 **Also, given that I had a very long time to think about this fic, expect there to be quite a few updates in the next week or so, until I run out of mental material :)**


	14. Chapter 14

**As always, thanks for reading!**

 **Sagitarscorpion1: I like writing shorter chapters, because I think it reflects on Cornelia as a character-she has a fast moving mind and doesn't stay occupied for very long before finding something else to do. And feel free to let your imagination run amuck ;P that's exactly what I've been doing this past week. Thanks for reviewing so quickly and I hope you enjoy this chapter as well!**

 **princesaangelbebe: Glad you're cheering for Cornelia! She's about at the end of her rope for coping with her bizarre situation, and Boromir and the boys certainly aren't helping ^^; funny you should mention frying pans . . .**

* * *

Chapter 14

* * *

I quietly return to base camp, as I so affectionately call it. The others are treating this stay in Lothlórien like some kind of vacation but I refuse to submit and become pleasantly comfortable and waste my time doing nothing more than smoking and eating, as the Hobbits and indeed everyone save Legolas seem to be doing.

It's strange, how much I want to sit and do nothing or spend the entire day eating and singing—my two favourite things next to sleeping, apparently. But I wave it off and focus hard on my goals.

Aragorn and Boromir are huddled sort of close together, discussing something intently. It's the most focused I've seen them since we spoke with Galadriel, which wasn't that long ago, I think. But somehow I still feel annoyed with them, like they've been doing nothing for ages and ages.

Further still, Aragorn would normally have noticed me sneaking back into the camp, and at least have acknowledged me. I guess that Galadriel's perfect little dream world in Lothlórien is more than just a romanticism on Tolkien's part, and that it really does dull the senses and lull the mind.

Legolas is unaffected for the most part, and greets me with a sympathetic expression.

I set my sights on Aragorn again, listening hard to pick up on his half note discussion.

"She cannot stay in the Fellowship, Aragorn—it's folly to bring a woman, nay, a child, on this perilous journey."

Aragorn raises his hands in a steadying motion, urging Boromir to hush-hush. "I would not have her accompany us either, if she were just that. . . Gandalf seemed to believe she is a Maia."

"Gandalf is dead," Boromir reminds callously, and Aragorn drops his hands. "She tires and bleeds just as any mortal does—and I've not seen hide or hair of this magical-Valar-gifted nonsense from her."

Legolas appears a little ruffled by that, being that he is likely a firm believer in the presence of Eru Illúvator and the group of Ainur known as the Valar. He spares a moment to look sidelong at me though, analyzing my expression, and I wonder if I shouldn't be trying to assert some 'magical nonsense.'

"We're better off leaving her here, she's useless to us."

I can't help but make my presence known at that—I'm completely done with being called useless and incompetent to my face today.

I glide over to the lip of the fountain and sit with one leg crossed over the other in a devil-may-care kind of way and dare him to continue with a jutted out chin.

"Were you listening?" He asks, not the least bit tinged.

"Yes."

"Good." He declares. "You'll not be joining us hereafter."

I'm shocked, but give him my best piercing stare nonetheless, and channel all of Galadriel's confidence—which seemed to unnerved him before. For added affect, I consider all the things I know that they don't, and try to exude an air of wisdom.

"Is that really your call to make, Boromir, son of Denethor?"

Boromir's temper flares and I recognize that I've tried too hard or gone too far, and that he is genuinely P.O'ed.

"It's certainly not your call to make, spy!"

My jaw drops and my voice breaks. "What did you call me?"

"I called you a spy! What else could you be? Appearing before us under unusual circumstances—acting as though you know us to gain our trust? Pretending to be our ally when things repeatedly turn from our favour?" He points at me suddenly. " _I saw how you held the Ring with your covetous little paws!_ "

I jump to my feet, head pounding, and stalk towards Boromir. He doesn't stand down.

"You are a fool if you think that's my game." I breathe, breath cold on my lips. I wonder if he's not saying this to cause me to break from the Fellowship on my own, but I suspect it may very well be the Ring causing this disruption, and has been for a while.

I've never been prone to headaches, but I've had one constantly today—and there's a familiar wordless buzz in my head, wordless in that something I can't understand is being uttered over and over again.

"You're nothing but a sorry little girl pretending to be important—and you're not."

Aragorn is moving quickly to separate us and the buzzing only becomes louder as the Hobbits are stirred from peaceful naps, rubbing their eyes in confusion as they take in the standoff. Gimli takes a long draw on his pipe and chokes, still unable to tear his eyes away, and Legolas steps closer.

I consider if I really want to open the metaphorical can of worms, and stoop to Boromir's level and be as petty as he says I am.

My poker face is good, I know, it has to be for me to have managed for so long here already. I bring up my fist in a tight right upper cut with a snap—never looking away from his darkened eyes or giving any indication about what I was about to do, and pop him hard in the jaw.

It sends him reeling from the shock of it and I step in, grabbing his shirt while preparing to bring my knee up to cause serious damage. But Aragorn blocks it by stepping between us, taking the blow with the side of his leg, and Legolas is suddenly lifting me away by underneath the arms, holding me like a child that weighs nothing.

"Let me at him! I'll claw his damn eyes out!"

Legolas is trying to whisper something soothing to me in Sindarin, but I still steam and can't stop. I know the Ring is responsible and that only makes me madder.

Aragorn holds Boromir back on the other side of the camp, who still looks ready to threaten harm upon me. Somewhere along the line Merry and Pippin have joined Aragorn, latched onto either of Boromir's legs as he makes kicking gestures at me, howling out curses that I would otherwise be impressed at. Legolas doesn't let me down as I struggle to peel his hands away and Gimli grips his axe.

Comically, Sam stands by his tent with a brandished frying pan, still too dream lagged to decide who needs a wallop, and Frodo stands behind him-looking like he wants to say something, but doesn't.

* * *

 **Hope you guys enjoyed! I had fun writing this dilemma.**


	15. Chapter 15

**Thanks for reading, everybody!**

 **Ninjagirl2211: Cornelia is definitely having troubles :/**

 **Sagitarscorpion1: In answer to your question-the Ring's influence was affecting both Cornelia and Boromir. They're both easy targets for the Ring, both being human and relatively young. The only difference being Cornelia knows she doesn't want the Ring and Boromir knows he does.**

* * *

Chapter 15

* * *

I am banished to one side of the camp, and Boromir to the other—likely for the rest of our time in Lothlórien. Not that I'm complaining. He can stay the frig on his side of the camp for the rest of his life.

As a direct result of our spat, Aragorn has taken to staying dead center of the camp, like he actually expects one of us to jump the line and strangle the other. Likewise, Merry and Pippin stay at Boromir's side, 'keeping an eye' on him. And they do such a great job of it, from where I stand; wrestling happily with the clinically insane meatball.

On my side, I have Legolas and Gimli-who don't exactly get along on a good day. But they've been warming to each other, strangely enough, and I think it might have something to do with me. Maybe.

For instance, Legolas has looked up on occasion and made a warning remark to me as I move about the camp, thinking I may be trying to get close enough to throw something at Boromir (I'm really not) and Gimli has come to my defence from time to time.

Gimli is of the opinion that my anger _was_ (implying it no longer is) reasonable, given the circumstances, and that Boromir deserved the slap in the mouth—and I remind him it was a punch. Either way, I'm just a little flattered that Gimli's on my side. It must be a short person thing.

However, it's day three now and I'm not making any progress on learning new skills, other than finding mushrooms that can be cooked in a skillet and eaten without poisoning myself, or Boromir for that matter. Courtesy of Sam of course. (And I'm really not trying to poison Boromir.)

I haven't had any divine revelations or anything else along those lines either, though I am convinced that the Ainur/Valar—whoever the gods of this world are—had something to do with my sudden appearance in Hollin. How else would I end up exactly in the Fellowship's path? Seems a bit predestined to me.

I'm not about to solve any existential crisis sitting around doing nothing, so I get up to go for a walk somewhere. Legolas moves to follow me and I make an exasperated noise at him, which he ignores.

"I'm just going to clear my head,"

"I will go with you." He decides, as opposed to offering.

"Leave the lass be, Pointy-ears." Gimli snorts. "It's'not like she can up and disappear with all you Elves around to see."

"Even so,"

I sigh through my nose and wrap my arms around me before stomping out of the camp. Real mature, Cornelia. Just let the entire Fellowship see how immature and cranky you are; not like they didn't think you were a total nuisance before now.

Don't talk to yourself, you nutbird.

"Are you cold?" Legolas asks, seeming to pause and measure the temperature.

"No." I grumble. I could appreciate the gesture, but I'm grouchy and more than a little moody.

Warm light tickles my peripheral vision and my body halts itself at once, head turning to my left, lips parting. I've just spotted something quite amazing.

There's a small and naturally formed garden sprouting from the hollow trunk of an ancient Mallorn tree, just a short distance off the beaten path. Light from above the canopy filters down, feeding small, silver flowers-and all around them the mulch of Mallorn's golden leaves. It's magical, but what isn't magical in Lothlórien?

I make my way to the little enclosure, over giant roots and slippery moss, Legolas following soundlessly.

Once there, I step into the circle of light and look up at the sparsely clouded sky above, drinking in the true-blue color. I feel like I haven't seen the sky since before Moria.

"Where you were born, the trees are like a ceiling and the halls of your home made of hard stone?" I ask suddenly.

He seems surprised. "Yes."

"Do you ever miss the sky?"

Legolas' brow furrows and he gives me a perplexed look. "It is only above the boughs—not so very far away?"

The ever present buzzing from the Ring shushes as I burn the light from the sky onto my eyes, absorbing it, basking in it. My eyes water a little, but the slight sting is an altogether great feeling. I feel alive.

"Sometimes I feel like I am cut off from the rest of the world, from all of you—like I am very far away. Like I don't belong, like I never will, and that no one cares." I wonder if Elves understand what depression is? Is depression what they consider fading? I've been having a bad case of fading then, since Moria, I guess.

"Cor—"

I cut him off, because I feel like I need to let it off my chest, and because I hope that Legolas will understand a little of what I feel. "And when I feel like this I am suffocated and suddenly yearn for the sky. This is the same here in Middle Earth, as it was before."

I don't look at him, and can't tell what he might be thinking, if he's concerned or just confused.

Some amount of serenity has returned to me and my head feels clearer, having broken from the Ring, and it suddenly dawns on me that I'm not the only one who has been struggling with this feeling. Or rather, it's likely that everyone in the Fellowship have had these feelings, in varying degrees.

"I am sure Boromir feels the same as I do." I admit aloud. "He yearns for freedom from the darkness, and despairs when he does not find it."

Spotting a flat stone, I sit and cross my legs, resting my hands on me knees. I thought it would be easy to save Boromir—just get strong enough to fight alongside him and all that crap. But there's more to it than that; as long as he wants the Ring I can't stop him from going after Frodo. Further still, if I intervene and do save him, what about Merry and Pippin? They still need to make contact with Treebeard; the Three Hunters still need to pursue Uruk-hai to Fangorn Forest and meet Gandalf as the White Wizard. It hits me then, that I really shouldn't be here.

Legolas remains quiet, considering something in his own mind. I wonder what sort of thoughts he has, and if he feels that I am as out of place in this group as I think I am.

"I know I'm weak," I whisper, "and that I get in the way more often than not," _I'm here for a reason, for pity's sake!_ "but I do not believe that I am useless."

* * *

"What are you doing?"

I blink, finding that Legolas is no longer about—which is odd because I could have sword he wasn't five feet from me just a second ago. I twist to see who is actually with me and suddenly two birds fly off my shoulders, and a rabbit jumps out of my lap, shocking me really. Have I turned into Radagast?

The crown of my head has been warmed by the sun directly overhead, and I squint up accusingly at it. There's no way several hours have passed since I first sat down this morning? My stomach growls as though to say the opposite is true.

Haldir stands just outside the spot of light I sit under, lips a hard line.

I remember he asked a question and answer.

"I was meditating," because that was what I was trying to do, until I nodded off, albeit sitting up. But maybe I did meditate? Or enter some trance like state? I've heard it's possible, even on Earth. But I didn't think it would be so easy, or leave me feeling so disoriented.

I slouch a little and my back practically sings in relief. Definitely not a restful way to sit, I decide.

"On what?"

"Huh?"

He blinks, barely disguising an eye roll. Elves really like to pretend they're not judging your every move. "On what matters were you meditating."

"Oh." I shrug honestly. "On how to better control my temper and utilize my personal strengths in the future. And also how to apologize to Boromir for threatening to claw his eyes out." Among other things.

His eyes smile. "I heard."

I process that slowly, before it actually clicks in my head. He has seriously got to learn to use complete sentences.

I stand up in one movement, using only my legs as I uncross them, and look up at the sky again—holding one hand in front of the sun. I've tanned a bit since coming here, thanks to the time spent walking under the sun, minus Moria. My freckles have come out in full bloom.

"Why do you wish to be trained in the art of war?"

My head swivels his way and I give him a startled look, the answer springing forth immediately.

"Because my life depends on it."

He considers that.

"For claiming to be an emissary of the Valar I expected you to say that the fate of us all depends on it."

I crack a smile. "If I were not here, things would still work out exactly as they are meant to. On the contrary, I may be a chaotic element that threatens to bring the quest to ruin."

This alarms him, though he tries not to show it in favour of looking disapproving.

"Then why not separate from the Fellowship?"

"Because I can save a life, maybe more."

I _expect_ he wasn't expecting me to say that. He's quiet for a moment.

"And learning to wield a blade or bow will help you do this?"

"It may save your life."

* * *

 **Enjoy~ or, rather, let me know if you enjoyed? You know, drop a comment and all that jazz? ^^;**


	16. Chapter 16

**Thanks for your continued support! Drop a comment if you've got the time :)**

 **Of-Light-and-Shadow: I was so afraid you were going to scold me XD but you were just stopping by to praise me =w= nice seeing you around again ^^**

 **Sagitarscorpion1: Thanks for the speedy review, as always!~ Great to hear that you've been making progress in your own work :) If Haldir caving and teaching her was unexpected, then that's great =3= regarding Boromir, I've actually been doing a bit of jumping ahead to the chapters on the river Anduin, more than I have on these next two or three chapters** — **so hopefully, when I get there** — **you will enjoy them as much as I have been!**

 **princesaangelbebe: Yeah, I wanted Cornelia to hit Boromir at least once XD;;**

* * *

Chapter 16

* * *

Haldir never asked what exactly I meant by 'it could save your life' and seemed to take it at face value. Which is to say—he believes me.

While I'm not lying about knowing information that could potentially save his life, it's still possible that (under certain circumstances) it might be true, but might also be false. It's not like everything up until now has been going _exactly_ as predicted.

But I got what I wanted; someone to train me how to use weapons.

And we started training from that point on, sans dinner. I might have complained about being hungry, but he wasn't kidding when he said I would puke—which I did, just without anything in my stomach.

He drilled me so much harder than either Aragorn or Boromir would have dared, leaving aside all gender inequalities. It didn't matter to him that I'm a girl, or that I'm short, or even that I'm not an Elf. Marginally on that last one, as he has make digs about me being graceless, clumsy, and slow—which of course is because I'm mortal. Go figure.

So, Haldir is a very meticulous teacher—meaning I'm kept busy nearly all hours of the day. These past few weeks I've barely had time to eat, sleep, or bathe, probably in that order, unfortunately.

And he teaches me to be familiar with as many weapons as possible—as many that I am realistically able to use. Maces and axes might be out of the running; but swords, shields, spears, and daggers are not.

He's brutal.

The moment I get used to one sword, he switches me to another; the moment I think I've got spears down, he adds a shield to the equation. Two swords at once? Not as easy as it looks. Bows . . . I can hit the target, sort of?

"Do not depend on your bow skills, mellon nin. They will get you killed."

Instead, we focus on close combat. Sometimes Orophin and Rúmil assist us, because Haldir is certain that I will face plenty of situations where I am outnumbered. And I'm beginning to get hits in, real hits in.

"Rhaich!" Rúmil exclaims, rubbing his thigh where I've managed to bring the blunt spear down upon. Rúmil speaks very little common, and thanks to that I now know how to say a multitude of slangs and curses, in Sindarin of course. Elves don't 'swear', per say, but they do have a few nasty phrases they like to howl at clumsy humans.

Orophin steps in with a short sword and taps me on the shoulder with the tip of the blade, a warning to get my head out of the clouds. He's nice like that—but not so nice that he doesn't drive the hilt of his sword against my shield with a jarring crack. I back away, ears ringing.

He swings again and I catch the sword between my practice round shield on my left, and short spear on the right. Orophin is a lot, _lot,_ stronger than me so I don't try to tug it, but rather wrench it. On this occasion, I break the wooden sword with a sharp snap, the broken end flying off somewhere.

"Lle ume quel," Orophin allows, knocking me flat on my ass with the hilt of the sword on his next breath.

I grunt in response and get right back up, head spinning.

Breathing, I think, is the aspect I struggle with the most. I've literally fought until I've fainted more than once, which does not impress Haldir in the least.

"What use are you unconscious? Breathe!" He drills.

I take a deep breath and my lungs burn, vision fuzzing up a bit. I stay concentrated through the haze and manage to deflect another blow off the shield, but drop to my knees after, holding myself up with the back of the spear.

Sweat rolls down my face and my hair has come undone, sticking to the dampness of my neck and face. They step back to let me rest, taking sips of water from the nearby fountain.

It's beginning to get dark and I wonder if I should be heading back to the others yet. Not like they've noticed my comings and goings lately.

A slopping wet cloth comes flying at me and I intercept it with the side of my hand, fat droplets of water escaping off the cloth to pepper my cheeks and eyelids.

I glare at Rúmil before ringing the cloth out and scrubbing my face and neck.

"Hiril vuin?"

I look up, seeing a very startled Orophin bow, and my heart jumps in my throat when I see that Galadriel is standing barefoot on our muddied-up training ring.

I force myself up and onto my feet, swaying, and Galadriel waves me off. Stubbornly, I remain standing, trying not to breathe too sporadically as I do. Or maybe it was politer to kneel?

Galadriel smiles easily at Haldir and his brothers before dismissing them in slow, melodious Elvish. I jump when she addresses me, even though I fully expected her to say something to me in the first place.

"Did your companions not tell you that there is a feast in their honour tonight?"

They did, and that meant our time in Lothlórien was likely coming to an end. I didn't much feel like attending, in favour of getting some last minute training in—and beyond that, it was in _their_ honour. I can't help but notice that even Galadriel seems to agree on that.

"You have not rested for a moment since entering Lothlórien—I wonder if that isn't somehow my fault?"

"No, no!" I panic and shake my head vigorously, hoping I haven't been discourteous to the Lady of Lothlórien. "It's no fault of yours, my Lady."

She turns from me and begins walking away, but not in such a way that I feel that I've been dismissed. With a quiet sigh I follow stiffly after her, shedding my shield and spear and various safety padding as I do.

"Tell me, Cornelia—from where did you cross?"

"From the Lower Earth." It's not a lie, I tell myself—just a name I put on my present day world. And given that Galadriel seems to know I don't hail from Arda, it can't hurt but say so.

"And do you know who allowed you to cross?"

"The Valar, I suppose." It's not like there's an aeroplane that flies you to Middle Earth and dumps you in front of the Fellowship for your personal journey of a lifetime. If there is, I want a refund.

She turns suddenly, facing me with a stern expression, and I freeze. Her eyes are afire, burning cold and blue.

"Forgive me, child, but I see no reason for the Valar to interfere now—nor sense their grace in you."

My mouth slacks open and I feel myself deflating. I was really banking on the Valar being involved, somehow or another. It seemed to me the only logical explanation (logical by Middle Earth standards) and if Galadriel doubted it, then it probably wasn't so. I tremble a little.

"Then I suppose I have simply misplaced myself and walked between worlds for no other reason than that I simply found myself longing for something I couldn't find in the mediocrity of my mind." The words tumble out of my mouth and I look away, heavy tears growing on my eyelashes.

She seems to get a little brighter—smile a little lighter—at my chastised blush and offers her hand out to me in a sympathetic gesture.

"Do not misjudge yourself, child—that you have 'simply' misplaced yourself is no small feat . . . by any means. You are gifted."

I wipe my tears on the back of my arm, and try to meet her eyes without crying more. I hate that I'm breaking down, but find that I can't stop my façade from crumbling when I am around her.

Her gaze becomes grave again, once I've recovered, and she speaks softly—evenly. "However . . . I should hope that you fully understand what your presence here, in this world, means—and what can be achieved through your actions, good and bad."

* * *

 **I tried continuing on with their conversation, but Galadriel's said all that she's going to say** **—and face it, Cornelia has the attention span of a monkey. She's no good for long conversation, unless she's the one talking. *Self-absorbed person* #justsaying**


	17. Chapter 17

**Thanks for reading! This chapter features Mononoke Hime's theme in French and English. Credit to the lyrics does not belong to me, as these are things I had to look up online.**

 **Eleiriel: Thanks for enjoying the story so far and all the compliments you've showered on me and Cornelia ^^ I hope to continue to impress.**

 **Ravencritic(Guest): Thanks for picking up this story and enjoying it! The POV in this fic is completely from Cornelia's point of view, and she is a classic case of an unreliable narrator. As she hasn't had the opportunity to bond with the Fellowship, or even been asked many personal questions, she isn't revealing anything to them. Neither has she allowed them to show concern for her as she trains—she is purposely ignoring them. She's seriously been neglecting her social needs in general, and (any time now) her act will crumble.**

 **Sagitarscorpion1: Thanks for the review, as usual! I'm hoping to move onto more Fellowship bonding in the next chapter or so.**

 **Patriot16(Guest): Thanks very much for the review! I'm flattered by your praise of Cornelia ^^**

* * *

Chapter 17

* * *

I find myself washed and pampered and stuffed into a ridiculously expensive feeling dress almost before I can object. Not that I could object, seeing as Galadriel personally told me to go enjoy myself. But I definitely want to object—I don't do fancy dresses.

Before long, I'm entering the long dining hall where the Fellowship are being celebrated by the Lórien Elves. I uncomfortably paw at my hair and dress for a moment.

My hair seems to have grown more in the last month then it has in an entire half-year (an entire year would be an exaggeration, even by my standards) and the Elvish ladies have styled it soft and curly so that it rests gently on my shoulders. No Elvish circlets for me; I make myself a small flower crown to hold my fringe out of my eyes.

I look absolutely silly and force my eyes up from my feet, swallowing down a blush. Rúmil waves my way and I glower when he winks, like the little devil he is. Whoever said Elves don't know how to flirt obviously never met Rúmil.

I take tiny steps as I find my bearings, and suddenly there's a Hobbit tripping over my feet on his way back from the punch, or wine, bowl.

Pippin rights himself and checks his drinks, having been walking backwards and talking to Merry with both hands occupied by goblets of dark wine. Merry has two goblets as well, and I can't help but smile—these are the kind of guys I would love drinking with back home.

They've both stopped to apologize now, and I frown at them.

"Corn-nelia?" Merry asks.

I give him a fake disappointed look. "Who did you think you were talking to?"

"Oh, well, I don't know." He mumbles, for a minute, not quite able to look me in the face. "Not you, at least."

Pippin laughs at his awkward bramble. "I thought you were an Elf! But now that I think of it, you're awfully short to be an Elf."

"And you're a wizard." I shake my head at him as he does his best wizard impression, before he seems to think better of it and stops. "I need a drink."

Merry clears his throat. "Oh, I don't know about that. It's awfully strong stuff, you know, not really a woman's drink."

I take one of his goblets from him for that and down half the contents in one gulp. "Not bad," I cough. It burns more than expected. I hope this isn't Dorwinion wine they're feeding us tonight.

It does warm me a little, and I follow them back to their table amongst the bustle of many Elves. Lothlórien is normally so quiet and tranquil that I have trouble believing that these are the same Elves, dancing and drinking and politely shouting to one another.

Gimli is the first to spot me with the returning Hobbits, a dribble of wine falling through his beard. I didn't peg Gimli as the wine drinking sort, but I suppose in the absence of liqueur and beer, one will drink whatever is available.

"Oi, lassie! You're wearing a dress?"

"My, my, master Dwarf. Nothing escapes your notice," I reply, sarcastically.

Gimli takes no offence and laughs heartily, patting his beard down around his rosy cheeks. "It doesn't suit you,"

That actually doesn't make me feel better at all and I can only sheepishly shrug around plummeting self-esteem. Thanks so much, I feel like saying—not like I can blame Galadriel for forcing me into it. Not like anyone would believe me either.

"Gimli . . ." Aragorn scolds, coming to my rescue with a reassuring glance. "It's looks fine, Cornelia."

Boromir snorts rather loudly at that, and glares at his plate of food. It's mostly fruit and nuts; a little bit of bread; a piece of cured meat; and I think I see what looks suspiciously like cheese. I would love some cheese.

My mouth watering is interrupted by Sam, who seems to have had a few drinks too many, already.

"You look mighty fine tonight, Miss Corn-nelia." Sam hiccoughs.

He elbows Frodo, who raises an eyebrow at him while sipping his own wine, which I expect he's diluted with the pitcher of icy water from the center of the table. I'm glad to see him in higher spirits.

Sam continues.

"Sure, these past few days we all could have mistaken you for a man."

"True that is," Pippin agrees. "You certainly smelt like one,"

I feel my ears getting hot and quell the urge to bury my head in my hands. I can't argue with him there—there are few times I've smelt worse than what I did this last week.

Merry wallops Pip over the head for me, and I drown my shame in my goblet, reaching for another off the table as the last drop rolls down my throat. I don't particularly care who owns it either.

"Should you be drinking so quickly, my friend?" Legolas asks. It was definitely his that I took, I decide. I think that an indirect kiss from an Elf is better than one from, say, a Dwarf. Gimli seems to backwash.

"You know, if you can't beat 'em, join 'em." I say. He doesn't seem to get it—neither do I. My tongue feels kind of knotted up, and I think I meant to say something else entirely.

Sam is also trying to say something to Frodo, but all I hear are _petunias_ this and _begonias_ that. Plant the lilies after the pansies, or the pansies after the chives—wait, Mr. Frodo, I don't think I plant chives in your garden after all. Frodo is obviously too sober to take Sam's speech with a straight face and he laughs aloud, and Sam starts over from the beginning.

Merry and Pippin start up a Hobbit song, stomping feet and linking arms. I clap along, enjoying the energy. It reminds me a little of Irish pub songs—and I've heard my fair share of Irish pub songs.

Maybe I clap a little too energetically, because Pippin suddenly drags me off my seat to the small open space he and Merry have claimed as their stage.

Without prompting, Merry joins Pip as they serenade me with their best bar song.

I'm not sure what they were expecting me to do, but I figure spontaneously breaking out into dance wasn't it. And I do a pretty good job of it, for being half drunk.

I hoist my dress up to my knees and hope they aren't too scandalized by my ankles, and drop a few Irish step dancing moves. There's no exaggerated tapping sounds to offend Elven ears, as I'm wearing soft fabric shoes, and it's been a while since I took lessons so I can't guarantee I even come close to doing it correctly. But it's fun, and I love to dance.

The Hobbits startle when I jump and spin and snap my legs outs with pointed toes, but sing all the louder for it, and smile brightly.

I laugh and dance around them, dropping one side of my dress to bring an arm away and twirl it about my head in counter motion to my spinning. Then, I let go of the dress and rest my hands on my waist, dancing high on my feet. Every spin I make fans the dress out in a bell-like shape, and when I slow and kick my feet, it clings to my legs but follows my movement.

I don't know how long I dance for, or how often I stop for a refreshing drink, but I somehow drag Gimli out with me and twirl him about like a proper lady. Eventually, I even coerce Aragorn out, though he attempts to tell me I'm being silly—which I ignore.

Pippin and Merry demand me to teach them how to dance like I do, but they're all feet and spend more time kicking each other and stubbing their toes on their heels. I do manage to show them how to do a three person circle dance, which looks terribly silly as I attempt to duck under their arms.

All the while the Elves watch on in idle curiosity, amused by our strange dancing. It would be great fun, I think, to have an Elf try to dance a jig. And if I weren't so afraid of Haldir I would have tried to force either him or one of his brothers over to dance, but I like my head where it is.

Like that, the night wears by and the energy becomes more sober—whether because we've run out of wine to drink or tuckered ourselves out with all the dancing, I can't say which for sure.

Aragorn and Legolas are talking quietly now and, for once, Boromir is joining the discussion. Gimli sits close enough to listen, but doesn't appear to have much to interject.

Sam has his head down on the table, out-cold by the looks of it, and Frodo stares off into space, still clutching an empty goblet. Merry and Pippin sit on either side of me, munching on leftovers.

Pippin clears his throat, and taps my shoulder. I give him my attention quickly.

"Say, will you sing something for us?"

I scrunch up my eyebrows. "What do you want me to sing?"

"Anything," he leans into me, his chin resting in his palm. "Something soothing?"

I put my arm over his shoulder and think for a minute. It's a little embarrassing to sing with all these Elves present, I think, as they are obviously more talented than mere mortals. But I'm not one to turn down a request, especially after Pippin sang me songs to dance to all night.

So I start, softly, quietly.

" _Le son si tremblant d'un bel arc, relâchant sa flèche en l'air, et perçant la lumière de tous les astres . . . c'est ce dont ton cœur est fait._ "

It's barely more than a whisper but I feel that that many of the Elves have subtly looked over. Likewise, Aragorn has shushed Boromir and Legolas, allowing me to sing uninterrupted—which is polite, I guess, but really awkward too.

" _La magnificence d'une lame, travaillée au plus haut point. Son allure est semblable au bout d'une arme, a la rage qui vit dans tes mains._ "

I keep the tempo even and my voice quiet, holding my posture upright so I don't tremble as I sing. I squeeze Pippin's arm a little as do, but he's too absorbed in the song to notice.

" _Tu contemples souvent la colère, et la tristesse, elles te sont comme des soeurs, mais ceux qui savent de quoi vit ton cœur,_ " I take a deep breath, raising my voice, " _sont les esprits de la forêt, sont les esprits de la forêt._ "

Sam rouses and nudges Merry as I tap my foot quietly. "What language do you suppose that is?"

I take another big breath and prepare to sing louder still.

" _In the moonlight I felt your heart, quiver like a bow strings pulse, in the moon's clear light, you looked at me—Nobody knows your heart._

" _When the sun has gone I see you, beautiful and haunting, but cold—like the blade of a knife, so sharp, so sweet—Nobody knows your heart._ "

They've all caught on that I'm singing the same song, translated, and they listen all the harder for it. Of course, not all the Lothlórien Elves speak common. Though, there are enough Elves that do, to translate for them later.

" _All of your sorrow, grief, and pain, locked away in the forest of the night. Your secret heart belongs to the world, of the things that sigh in the night . . . Of the things that cry in the night. . ._ "

* * *

 **. . . tadah!~**


	18. Chapter 18

**Thanks for reading!**

 **Eleiriel: Thanks for the praise! You are too kind :) I will update whenever I can, though maybe not always every single day ^^; my wrists are starting to hurt a little. It's only a thousand or so words a day but I do a lot of outlining as well. I hope that I can keep you on your toes with cute little moments like dancing with Gimli!~**

 **Of-Light-and-Shadow: Perish the thought! I hope not . . . XD;;**

 **Michelle(Guest): I'm glad I didn't over do it with the choice of song ^^ I highly recommend listening to Mononoke Hime no Theme in French, as it is quite beautiful!**

 **Ninjagirl2211: Cornelia's songs and stories are her selling points :)**

 **hikaru shinyi(Guest): Yes, I do believe I said it was from Mononoke Hime? I thought it suited :)**

 **Spirit of Wynter" Sorry for the delay with this next chapter! I've been busy with work ^^;**

 **Sagitarscorpion1: The song is Mononoke Hime no Theme, an OST from the movie Mononoke Hime. Singers vary, composer is (I think) Joe Hisaishi. I'm glad you and others have thought that the song is beautiful, as it is one of my favourite OSTs amongst all of the Studio Ghibli movies.**

 **Princesaanegelbebe: Glad my take on Haldir is pleasing to you ^^**

 **Minerakf: Working on it! Thanks for the review ^^**

* * *

Chapter 18

* * *

I turn in soon after singing, having been praised by Gimli, Legolas, Aragorn, and all four Hobbits, as well as Rúmil, Orophin, and a couple other Elves. Gimli, I swear, even wipes a tear from the corner of his eye.

That my singing is met by such praise by members of the Fellowship (save Boromir) pleasantly surprises me—and that praise comes further still from the Elves of Lothlórien in their very own dining hall is a great honour. It stokes my ego a little, actually, a lot.

It means little to me in the morning, as I find myself disgusted at my lack of self-control. I'm in a bad way—hungover and suffering from a terrible case of morning breath. I thought I left this kind of behaviour behind when I graduated high school.

I leave before anyone wakes up—save for Legolas who is as always, awake—and freshen up at the small, private, bathing pool.

I think there must be something in the water in Lothlórien; despite all that I've done in the last month to improve my endurance, strength, and ability, I have no scratches or bruises. And I know I should—I've seen them form, only to fade away by the next night.

Likewise, my hair has really grown more than it should have in the last month, and I feel like I've lost weight and toned up in places I've never had muscles before. Even my face has thinned, which doesn't please me in the least.

And I realize—where once I was cute and childlike, I am now fiercely feminine.

My birthday should be soon, and I turn twenty-one, so it's not like I've had more growing to do—and I certainly haven't gotten any taller. But I look like I've matured from a teenager to a grown woman, and I thought I'd done that long ago.

I feel unexpectedly disheartened by this. I rather liked looking like a child. Oh gosh, I'm going to be one of those old women who are forever in denial of losing their youth.

While pondering these thoughts I make to return to the camp, feeling my boney cheek bones as I go.

Haldir intercepts me before I reach the base, quirking an eyebrow at me as I pinch my cheeks. I quickly put my hands behind my back, embarrassed.

"The Fellowship have been summoned by my Lord and Lady," he informs dryly.

I tilt my head a little and he practically rolls his eyes.

"That includes you, Tithendûrgalien."

I roll my eyes and entire head at that. Tithendûrgalien seems to have become my nickname here, known at least by Haldir and his brothers, courtesy of Rúmil's terrible naming sense.

"Do you know what the summoning is for?" I assume it's about our imminent departure.

"Why do you ask questions to which you already know the answer?" he remarks in return.

"Contrary to popular belief, I do not know everything,"

He smiles a quarter of a quarter inch at that. "But you do know the answer to this question, mellon nin."

I don't deny that and let him escort me to the meeting place.

Frodo has not yet arrived, I see, and neither has Galadriel. I wonder if they aren't discussing something in private, as Ring-bearers.

After I take my place at the end of the line, Haldir crosses the room and stands next to Celeborn, and I think that's not how the original script went? But neither is it unusual for one of the marchwardens of Lothlórien to be at his Lord's side.

Frodo arrives and Galadriel takes her place as well. A few Elves flit in after them, carrying bundles of clothes to hand to each of the Fellowship. I'm delighted to receive my own, and find that they are made of the softest, most durable, Elven material.

We're instructed to switch into them, and given a moment of privacy to do such. Of course, I end up having to go to a private corner—typical.

I am very impressed to find that they fit perfectly, and, while made for functionality, are quite stylish as well.

The top is a pale silver tunic with a mandarin collar and deep buttoned neck, short sleeved and airy, and underneath it is a sort of leather armour, thin enough that I can't tell I wear it through the tunic, but deceptively tough when I attempt to stretch it. It's a well enough support for my non-existent chest.

Leather arm guards are with it, and they draw from above my elbows to across my knuckles, and on the inside-side are silver flossings of Mallorn leaves.

The provided leggings are fitted but flexible and just the slightest bit baggy about the knees, and are a darker, almost charcoal, grey.

Best of all are the boots—brown suede and knee high; a better replacement for my worn-out pair. They are tight about the foot and ankle, loose on the leg and strapped at the knee.

The outfit is finished with a leather belt and small attached pouch.

There is no floor length mirror for me to really appreciate my new outfit, but each item is so exquisitely made that I can't help but feel like a real warrior.

I am the last person to return to the lineup, and the Hobbits give me approving looks. Pippin raises his thumb at me as I've done to him on occasion and I smile back at them—they're clothes are Elven made, but Hobbit designed. Likewise, Aragorn and Boromir are wearing clothes that have clearly been made by Elvish hands, but resemble their normal clothes, and Gimli too has been slightly remodelled.

Legolas' appearance hasn't much changed, his clothing retaining the Mirkwood motifs, such that I finally realize I'm very much wearing the garb of a Lothlórien Elf, and the only one, too.

I feel less out of place as a couple Elves approach us with silver-brown cloaks and fasten them about our necks with Lothlórien emblems—leaf broaches of green and silver veined design.

They finish with me and I feel flutters in my chest, completely overwhelmed at being a part of this moment.

"Every league you travel south, the danger will increase." Celeborn announces suddenly. "Mordor Orcs now hold the eastern shore of the Anduin. Nor will you find safety on the western bank."

Galadriel sizes us up and my short emotional moment is over, and I wonder what she sees when she looks at us. Hope? Despair? A mix of something else entirely?

"Strange creatures bearing the White Hand have been seen on our borders." Celeborn continues, systematically explaining to us our odds of survival. "Seldom do Orcs journey in the open under the sun, and yet these have done so."

He approaches Aragorn, and holds out an ornate dagger to him. Aragorn takes it and unsheathes it, studying it intently, reverently almost.

Celeborn speaks quietly to him, but not so quiet that I don't hear. "Le aphadar aen."

Aragorn nods and puts the dagger back into it sheath, meeting Celeborn's eyes with undeterred determination.

"By river you have the chance of outrunning the enemy to the Falls of Rauros." Celeborn finishes and steps back, allowing Galadriel forward, holding a large bow.

"My gift for you, Legolas, is a bow of the Galadhrim. Worthy of the skill of our woodland kin."

Legolas tests the string, easily pulling it back and gently returning it to an un-taut position.

Galadriel smiles as she continues onto Merry and Pippin, giving them each a dagger. "These are the daggers of the Noldorin. They have already seen service in war."

Pippin, is of course, terrified at the notion of wielding it to slay enemies, and he struggles to sincerely meet Galadriel's eyes.

"Do not fear, young Peregrin Took. You will find your courage."

She stands in front of Sam next, and I can tell she likes Sam the best. She definitely does, I think. Otherwise she wouldn't indulge him as she does.

"And for you, Samwise Gamgee, Elven rope made of hithlain."

Sam bows. "Thanks you, my lady." He hesitates a moment, and unabashedly asks, "Don't suppose you have anymore of those nice, shiny, daggers?"

She smiles at him, genially amused, and continues on to Gimli.

"And what gift would a Dwarf ask of the Elves?"

He shakes his head and stares at his feet. "Nothing," and looks up. "Except to look upon the Lady of the Galadhrim one last time, for she is more fair than all the jewels beneath the earth."

I school my expression and try not to snicker aloud. If I do, it's overshadowed by Galadriel as she laughs loudly at that, eyes closing through her wide smile, and Gimli scowls to himself, turning away for a moment. Celeborn tries not to look too jealous.

"Actually . . . there was one thing. No, no, I couldn't." He struggles with himself. "It's quite impossible. Stupid to ask."

I'm disappointed that he says no more and hope that he does pick up his courage to ask her, if not in my presence, at least sometime before we depart.

Galadriel moves onto Aragorn and speaks quietly, privately. I'm guessing they speak of Arwen, as Legolas politely tries not to overhear anything, suddenly quite interested in inspecting his vambraces. He can be so awkward sometimes.

They're conversation trails off and Haldir approaches me with measured steps. He's holding a spear and shield that I failed to notice before now, probably having picked them up while I was ogling at my new clothes.

I think anything but that he's really going to give them to me—Elven made weapons with frighteningly sharp edges and hard wrought designs in what looks suspiciously like mithril inlay.

My jaw drops when he does offer them out to me and I numbly take them—surprised at their weightless feel in my hands. I can hardly tear my eyes from them; the shield a highly decorated metal work, the width about as long as my arm; and the spear, a wide and triangular bladed tip with silver grooves. The staff is in three sections, and can slide to be as short as a sword, or as long as a polearm.

We're both silent and I notice from the corner of my eye that Gimli is looking between the two of us with a conspiratorial glint. Great.

"I don't know what to say . . ."

"Then don't say anything, mellon nin. These gifts comes from me and my brothers, in the hopes that you will fulfil your goals here." He pauses, and his lip twitches up. "You have worked hard, and are worthy of wielding these weapons."

He crosses an arm over his chest and bows, and I return the gesture clumsily, arms full with the deadly works of art.

"Na lû e-govaned vîn." Haldir speaks, stepping away.

Galadriel approaches me next and I'm not recovered enough to make an intelligible response.

Her face is stern, but I can tell she smiles from the slight crinkle in her eyelids. "And on behalf of all Lothlórien, I bequeath to you the name _Neliel—_ for your voice is as the sound of bells is: pure."

I don't think I've ever looked quite so pink as I feel right now, but I'm truly flattered, and honoured, and a hundred other feelings I can't quite express with my face. I know many of Arda's people have multiple names, but I never imagined I would be gifted one of my own. And I feel that they considered both my qualities, and my given name: Cornelia.

Though, a bell is a far cry from a war horn.

I thank Galadriel as graciously and calmly as I can, my voice a whisper and the words a jumble in my own ears.

Celeborn speaks next, and I think I may be receiving way too much attention.

"I know some would prefer that you stay here, away from harm and darkness," he begins, ignoring the displeased look on Boromir's face, "only, I can't help but feel that you, Neliel, are meant to help and guide the Fellowship, in Gandalf's stead."

These words coming from—reputably the most wise Elf in Middle Earth—shock me most of all, and I bow deeply to the Lord and Lady of Lothlórien.

Regardless of where fate takes me now, I doubt I will ever forget my stay in the Golden Wood of Lothlórien.

* * *

 **Neliel has two possible meanings: Bell girl/daughter—and third daughter. I'm going for the bell meaning.**

 **Na lû e-govaned vîn, I think, means 'until we meet again'. If I'm wrong please correct me.**

 **And finally, a big thanks to all my recent readers and reviewers ^^ Thank you all so much!**


	19. Chapter 19

**Thanks for reading, everybody!**

 **Eleiriel: You're quick to review, as usual! I think I'll be taking a breather after chapter 20, but by no means will I drop it :)**

 **princesaangelbebe: If I were confronted with Haldir, in the flesh, I think I wouldn't be able to speak. Cornelia fairs slightly better XD**

 **SamandJake: I don't think the transforming into an Elf route is for Cornelia—but saying that doesn't mean she won't try to save Haldir if she thinks she has a chance to do so.**

 **Sagitarscorpion1: Thanks for your praise! I normally write very long chapters, but after drafting the first chapter of this story I suddenly wanted each chapter to feel very episodic and snappily short.**

 **Spirit of Wynter: Ship away! People (in the past) have told me they ship Boromir and Cornelia, and you shipping she and Haldir is also a possibility. I've been told not to ship her and Legolas, and I'm in fair agreement to that. Beyond this, I'll see how it works as I go.**

* * *

Chapter 19

* * *

Predictably, I've been seated with Gimli and Legolas, given the other two boats already bear three passengers each. I wonder briefly—if Gandalf had made it here with us—where he would have sat, and where I would have then sat.

It is my guess that Gandalf would have taken Frodo and Sam; and that Legolas and Gimli would have gone with Aragorn; and that I, for no other reason than weight discrepancy, would have been placed with Boromir, Merry, and Pippin. That would have been an interesting boat ride, to say the least.

And, regretfully, it would have been perfect for my plan of saving Boromir's life. But I'll find another way.

So I find myself sitting in a lightweight boat, crammed in by packed supplies and the broad shoulders of a malcontent Dwarf. I don't reckon Gimli likes the water. In fact, neither do the Hobbits, or Boromir, or Aragorn, or me either. I think Legolas is the only one amongst us to have half a hope of dragging himself out of the winter cold waters of the Anduin, and those are poor odds for the rest of us.

Well, Aragorn and Boromir probably could do it too, but only out of spite for trying.

Nonetheless, we are situated away and ready to embark upon our respective destines. And I'm not looking forward to travelling all cramped up in a boat for hours and hours.

I don't do sitting still well, and Gimli panics every time I twist and rock the boat.

I've fastened my shield to my back with the help of a three-way leather belt over one shoulder and under one boob—not the most comfortable thing but again, I don't have much to impede it.

The shield is actually kind of comfortable to lean back on, being nicely padded on the concave side. The spear I've laid across my lap, still mesmerized by it's beauty.

The pole is like an extendable Swiffer® duster. There are three sections, and they become narrower near the base of the spear head, allowing it to collapse and be quite short—for more than convenience's sake.

It's such a purpose-able weapon and I imagine it will serve me well both as a close-quarters weapon, and as a mid-range weapon—not to mention I could throw it also. Not that I would, for fear of losing it.

And I expect it's made from a mithril alloy, otherwise the sectioned design would compromise the over-all integrity of the weapon.

It truthfully appears quite ornamental, being both radiantly white and silver etched, but one touch tell me it's not. It is unbending and sharpened to perfection—a deadly weapon.

"May I?" Legolas asks, holding his hand out for the spear.

I reluctantly hand it over—loathe to be apart from it. It's more precious to me then any Ring of Power. My first true gift given to me by members of this world.

"This is of Vanyar make, no doubt."

I'm puzzled for a moment, but the name is familiar to me.

"Vanyar . . ." I try on my tongue. It clicks after a moment. "You mean the Firsts?" First Elves, that is.

Legolas brightens, having found a conversational partner on his same page. On the other hand, Gimli is seethingly confused.

"Yes, the Minil," Legolas encourages.

I make an 'o' sound and wonder what I can drudge up to continue this. "So that's why Haldir kept calling me little-dark-light-one in Sindarin." I try, and find myself genuinely catching on to meaning behind the name.

Gimli looks even more confused.

"But how did a weapon made by the Vanyar end up in Middle Earth?" I ponder aloud. "They haven't walked on these lands in thousands of years."

"The Lady Galadriel is of Vanyar descent, through her grandmother's side." Legolas explains, like it's an easily forgotten thing. It definitely isn't; Galadriel owes her beautiful fair hair to her Vanyar roots—as the Vanyar were also known as "Fair" Elves for their universally blonde hair.

"Indis, Finwë's second wife." I continue. I at least know this story, since it intrigued me that an Elf married twice. Before then I thought that Elves could love only once. Apparently not entirely true, I guess.

It strikes me then, that I'm holding a very old piece of weaponry, and possibly one that is an important heirloom to Galadriel. I bury my face in my hands—mortified that I took it without fully appreciating its historical importance.

"I had no idea it was something like that," I muffle through my hands. "And they just gave it to me?"

"He called you little-dark-light-one?" Legolas is unexpectedly more interested in _that_ story. "How did he say it?"

Great. I bury my face more. "Tithendûrgalien."

Legolas blows out a laugh at that, and it may be the first time I've really heard him do so.

"That's ridiculous!" He howls between breaths. "Are you certain that is what he said?"

"In Haldir's defence, it was Rúmil that came up with it—and it started off as Titheniel, and just kept get weirder from there." Seeing Legolas' reactions lets me know Rúmil's naming sense really is as bad as I thought it was, and why Orophin seemed both embarrassed for me, and resigned to it.

Legolas only laughs harder, and I guess it must be because he is an Elf that he appreciates the terrible naming sense more than I do. He only stops when Aragorn slows his rowing and makes shushing noises at him. Boromir is glancing over his shoulder at us, looking very much like he'd like to know what we're laughing about too.

Legolas gets himself back under control, and Gimli is combing his beard with impatient jerks of his hand.

"I'm glad they decided to call you Neliel in the end." He decides.

Gimli makes a noise in his throat, and I think he's agreeing.

"Giving you fine gifts, strange names, and wishing you farewell?" Gimli surmises. "Are you sure this Haldir fellow didn't fall in love with you, lassie?"

I give him a look that would make Aragorn proud, for he does have a certain knack for making exasperated faces.

"Sure, if beating the snot out of me is how he shows his affection."

Gimli chuckles now and ducks his head, as Aragorn can be heard making shushing noises in the background again.

"And what about you?" I taunt. "Have you quite fallen under the Elf-witch's spell?"

He opens and closes his mouth, shocked at the turnaround, and resolutely glares at the water. Legolas catches on to our topic in a heartbeat.

"What was her gift?"

Despite being abashed, he looks quite proud of himself. "I asked for one hair from her golden head. She gave me three."

Legolas shakes his head, slowly smiling. He's impressed, I can tell.

* * *

We make land for the night, resting in a rocky alcove. It isn't the most comfortable place to think about lying down and sleeping, but it does provide some shelter from searching eyes.

Except, there _are_ eyes on us, and have been for a while.

Aragorn and Boromir are stealthily looking over a tall rock at the water, and as I approach I get aggressively waved away by Boromir.

"Gollum," Aragorn explains without looking away. "He has tracked us since Moria."

I peek out, the same as they are doing, and keep my face neutral—hiding a horrified expression. He's a vile creature, no doubt.

"I had hoped we would lose him on the river—"

"But he's too clever a waterman." I finish. Aragorn tears his eyes away from Gollum for a moment, and I see he's trying to work out what the odds are of me saying, word for word, his exact thoughts.

While he does, Boromir glares at me, continuing on to the subject of importance. "If he alerts the enemy to our whereabouts, it will make the crossing more difficult."

"He won't do that." I reassure, or challenge.

Boromir snaps at me, grey-blue eyes hot. "And do tell—why is that?"

"Because he wants the Ring for himself—and he wouldn't risk it falling into any hands but his own."

"And how do you know so much about this creature?"

His tone is accusatory, and I wonder just when he started hating me so much. I don't get upset though. Boromir may be dissident with me, but he is kind to Merry and Pippin, and evidently would give up his life to protect them.

He looks alarmed as I stand up straighter, climbing over the rock. "I know more about Gollum than he probably does himself."

I look Gollum straight in the eye before Aragorn or Boromir can drag me back to their little lookout. His whole face contorts and his bulging, cat-like, eyes narrow before he dives under the water, disappearing downstream.

Boromir yanks me down roughly and I shove him away by the collar of his shirt, tripping one foot to lead him away from my face and then letting go.

"Are you crazy?" Boromir hisses, righting his twisted collar. "Who knows where he's run off to now?"

"Perfect," I retort. "The further away he is from us, the less chance we have of being discovered."

For once, Boromir considers the truth of my words. He looks to Aragorn for his opinion too, seeking some kind of validation.

"What do you know of Gollum?" Aragorn seriously inquires.

"He's a predator—if you show him you know he's there he'll back off." I chew my thumb, considering what best to say about him. "He's a brazen little bugger; cunning, patient, and vicious—a creature full of contradictions, and a monster made by men." _Men_ isn't quite correct (he's more like a Hobbit?) but it sounds pretty poetic.

They contemplate that in silence, Aragorn scoping out the woods for signs of his reemergence from the river, and Boromir watching the water itself for Gollum's shadow.

"Minas Tirith is the safer road," Boromir finally grouches. "You know that. From there we can regroup—strike out for Mordor from a place of strength."

Aragorn seems to have known this conversation was coming—or maybe he's been dealing with it all during the stay in Lothlórien. "There is no strength in Gondor that can avail us."

Boromir sulks, placing me aside for the time. "You were quick enough to trust the Elves."

Aragorn ignores him and I edge away silently. This is one cat fight I want no part of.

"Have you so little faith in your own people?" Boromir sputters, offended doubly by Aragorn's lack of answer. "Yes, there is weakness. There is frailty. But there is courage also, and honour, to be found in Men. But you will not see that."

I almost get elbowed when Boromir abruptly grabs for Aragorn, pulling him right up to his face practically—any closer and I'd think they were about to kiss.

Boromir seems to do that a lot—not almost kissing people, just grabbing them and getting in their face. Must be a Gondorian thing.

"You are afraid!" He accuses. "All your life, you have hidden in the shadows—scared of who you are, of what you are."

Aragorn, sensing he'll (rightfully) get no help from me, roughly forces Boromir away, fixing his tunic as he does.

He turns away from Boromir and whispers uncharacteristically scathing words—silencing Boromir's lecturing then and there.

"I will not lead the Ring within a hundred leagues of your city . . . !"

* * *

 **Comments? Drop a review** **—this chapter was a bit of a pain to write so I wouldn't mind some opinions :O**


	20. Chapter 20

**Thanks for reading!**

 **Eleiriel: You are frighteningly quick with the reviews XD;; glad you liked Gimli's shameless question ;)**

 **Ninjagirl2211: I have a lot of fun writing Gimli, Legolas, and Cornelia, together. They (Legolas and Gimli) act so tough and pretend to hate each other and come off as uncompromising, but they'd be the first ones to accept a tenth walker, no doubt.**

 **Imamc: Thanks for reviewing! I generally update quite frequently ^^**

 **princesaangelbebe: Three musketeers XD that's actually really cute. We'll see where the relationship with Haldir goes, if she ever meets him again ;O**

 **Spirit of Wynter: Glad the last chapter gave you something to laugh about :)**

 **Koal(Guest): KEEP CALM and CARRY ON**

 **Minerakfbeinlazy(Guest): XD Not this chapter, but the next, Cornelia seriously just tosses the war horn into the Anduin and Boromir gets so pissy.**

 **Noxy the Proxy: Glad you think so!**

 **Sorry for the delay, everyone! I have trouble with fighting scenes, so please be patient with me ^^;**

* * *

Chapter 20

Whether it's because of Gollum's gruesome appearance or Aragorn's biting words to Boromir, I dream of nothing pleasant this night.

I dream in such a way that I know I am asleep, but cannot wake no matter how I twist and turn. And I'm aware of Legolas standing over me for a while, likely considering if he should wake me. But he walks away instead.

Then, I slip deeper into unconsciousness and my body finally rests—or rather my mind, maybe even my soul, disconnects from it entirely.

I drift down a grassy lane of small hills and tall trees, and in the farthest reaches of my vision I see rolling bodies of great glowing worms. I find that I cannot be alarmed by their presence and cast my eyes skyward.

Above me is the night sky in the palest blue with the brightest stars, and the milky way clear for me to see. I forget that I am dreaming and find my jaw hanging agape. I think I see the constellation Orion.

Something stirs to my right and I look there, finding a strange blue spirit burning like a candle light. His form wavers and bobs in place and he holds a finger to his smiling lips, wordlessly commanding me to be silent.

I'm suddenly in Isengard again, underneath the earth in the stifling hot breath of a raging fire. Uruk-hai are being made in the hundreds of thousands, birthed from the mud and christened with weapons, armour, and the White Hand of Saruman.

I look around for a moment, wandering from one carved cavern to another, until I find it—the dragon from before.

He appears to be asleep, his station of bellows burning, but only just. Somehow he looks thinner, like he's begun to shrink in old age, and the chains and spikes that bind his wings and legs to the ground look all the more terrible for it.

His eyelids pinch together and slide open after a moment of struggle. He blinks a couple times and I'm fascinated by the movement of the semi-transparent inside lid.

" _Mortal. You are back?_ "

I don't respond immediately. This is a dream, right?

He snuffles, closing his eyes again. " _You know not where you are . . ._ "

" _I'm in Isengard,_ " I dispute. " _And this is a dream,_ "

" _A dream it may be for you,"_ he drawls tiredly. " _But this is an inescapable reality for me._ "

" _Who are you?_ " I ask. I've seen him twice now, any more than three times and I'm going to have to consider that he's real.

" _I am Bregolben, the last Urulokë. This_ ," he gestures with a slight raise of his long snout, _"is my prison, and my grave._ "

I nod, glancing about. " _How did I get here?_ "

He snorts at me. " _Do not ask me why the Valar move as they do._ "

" _The Valar brought me here?_ "

He breathes a little hard at me, louder than a sigh at least. " _Brought you here, no—but they do not simply allow outsiders onto the path of Olórë Mallë either._ "

" _Olórë Mallë?_ " I don't know what it is, but figure it's got something to do with the Valar. Duh.

Bregolben, the fire breathing dragon, is getting impatient with me now. " _The spiritual path between Arda and Valinor, and even that of the worlds innumerable._ "

 _"_ _Oh."_ Was this dragon saying he knew there were other worlds out there? What a fourth wall breaker.

" _How you managed to come through that path, with your flesh still intact,_ " he continues, " _is unknown to me . . . but stranger things have happened._ "

Yeah, I think, like me talking to a dragon.

A swirl of ungodly odour waifs around me and I make a face. Bregolben's eyes widen in curiosity, and he swishes the very tip of his tail, the only part unbound.

" _Something calls to your Fëa, small mortal._ "

" _Oh, I know that one, it means—_ "

" _Soul."_ He answers for me. " _Return quickly—for something dire calls your soul to your body._ "

A harsh scream jars me awake, and the horrible stench from earlier nearly chokes me. Likewise, the other sleeping members of the Fellowship have awoken.

I don't understand what is happening at first—body numb from fear. I stiffen further as a dark shadow passes over us, leathery wings glowing translucently against the half moon in the sky. Wraiths on wings, I realize.

"They've found new mounts, I see." Aragorn observes sarcastically, unimpressed. From what I can tell he wasn't on the night shift, and is groggy from sleep. I didn't peg Aragorn as the cranky-when-woken type.

"Fell beasts," Legolas breathes, through his mouth. They really stink that bad, to break even Legolas' composure. "They are looking for the Ring."

Astute observation, Watson, I feel like saying. Too bad he wouldn't get it.

Legolas notches an arrow and a wave of queasy unease passes over me.

"Shall I shoot it?"

Yes, let's shoot the giant wyvern so it knows exactly where we are. But, I think I remember something about Legolas scaring it off with one shot, so I say nothing.

Aragorn allows it anyways, and I'm thinking his judgement is really impaired post-sleep state. I personally would have recommended keeping our heads down and our asses wiped.

Unfortunately my hunch proves correct as it circles back our way with two more fell beasts and their Nazgûl masters in tow.

"Great!" I complain. I'm not normally so quick to anger, but that's when Nazgûl aren't involved. "Why does no one ever ask me my opinion before deciding to act upon _stupid_ ideas?"

Legolas shoots me an offended glance, but he'll get over it. One does not simply live to be a couple thousand years old without taking some verbal abuse. Speaking of 'one does not simply', Boromir decides to snarl at me too. He's decidedly not in a good mood.

"Maybe you should voice your opinions," he spits, _"before_ we do something stupid, next time!"

"If there is a next time, laddie." Gimli comments dryly, preparing his stance and axe for the approach of the Nazgûl.

"Trust me," I snort, just dripping with self-confidence. "There _will_ be a next time."

My bluff at least seems to calm down the Hobbits. I slip my arm through the leather straps of my shield and squeeze the enarmes until my hand protests from gripping it so tightly. The Nazgûl circle above once more, having not yet spotted us.

I take a deep breath and try not to be too overwhelmed by the smell of the fell beasts. The Vanyar spear is reassuringly cool to the touch and I snap it open with a flick of the wrist, shivering in the predawn darkness.

My heart is in my throat and I wish I were anywhere but here. And, if I hadn't just spent a month training for a moment like this, I would gladly crawl into the nearest crevice and wait for the fighting to end.

I nearly blanch when the trees behind us stir from the powerful beats of the fell beasts' wings, and I think I'll be lucky to survive this encounter at all.

Finally, the Nazgûl spot us and their shrieks cut the air like a blade. Worse still, because we are so closely camped to the river it actually becomes easier for their fell beasts to swoop down and perch on the rocky shore.

And, Galadhrim bow aside, arrows seem to do little more than agitate the great serpents.

But Legolas does know how to hit them just right—so that even their riders have to circle away and get them under control again. Two of them circle away like that, shaking lose arrows as they go.

Frodo chooses this moment to crumple to the ground, clutching his head with an expression of pure agony torn on his lips. The remaining Nazgûl is directly above us, fell beast almost hovering in place.

I see that he's gripping the Ring, about to put it on, and dive to cover him. It'd be impossible to find him if he disappeared on us now—and God only knows what else was lurking in the woods around us. I curse the Ring plenty, and hope it hears me.

I shake Frodo by the shoulder as I block the Nazgûl from sight, and his eyes clear, though the fear is still there.

Then, the other two Nazgûl return and dive onto the shore, separating us and the rest of the Fellowship—and on our side the other lands as well.

There's something different about the Nazgûl we face—he's more opaque than the others, and from his torn robes seem to protrude some kind of elaborate armour. It bothers me for a second, until the fell beast crawls over the rocks towards us, head bobbing on its long neck—like a cobra.

I shove Frodo behind me and run backwards with him, the toothy beak of the monster rushing towards us.

It strikes at the very end of its reach and I take the brunt of it on my shield, rolling with the force and only just barely pulling Frodo along with me. The resounding clack of its teeth has my ears ringing, and the vibration through the shield shivers through my entire body in painful waves.

I brace my arm for a moment and get myself back on my feet before drawing my spear up and onto the small indent at the top of the shield.

The blade of the spear is smaller than even the shortest short sword and I can't hope to chop the serpents head off with it—but if I'm lucky I can force it to retreat by gouging it full of holes.

So I charge without so much as a war cry, lips trembling and sweat dripping down the back of my neck and pretty much everywhere else.

It rears in response and beats it wings over my head and I drop flat, kissing the ground as I do. I spring up again, like I planned that all along, and stab the razor sharp spear into its chest, wrenching it back out before it can balk and rip the handle away from me.

I'm surprised by how easily the spear bites into the fell beast's tough hide, but quickly lose that thought as a dark spray of blood spatters my face and chest, blinding me for a moment.

It burns and I instinctively lift my shield bearing arm up to my face, scrubbing at my eyes as I feel the fell beast collapse hard—ground trembling as it does. The stench from it multiplies ten fold, a tangible taste on the wind, and I freeze when a voice crackling with static cuts through it.

It's not in a language I can understand, nor want to understand, and my feet turn cold as I sense the Nazgûl getting up from the dead or dying beast.

I lower my shield to my nose and open my eyes through the stinging blood, vision blurred and skewed.

Behind me is Frodo—the rest of the Fellowship on the other side of two fell beasts, thankfully keeping them preoccupied and away from us—but I'm still on my own with one angry-as-hell Nazgûl.

I blink furiously, trying to clear my eyes of both the blood and now the constant stream of tears. I don't exactly see the Nazgûl, but where he stands there is a dark vision of a spectre holding a curved blade and wearing a horned helm and scaled armour.

In a fit of brilliant deduction I realize that this is Khamûl facing me, and I curse my unlucky stars. Khamûl the Easterling is not someone I want to be picking a fight with, ever.

He lurches forward and I balk, taking a strike on the shield with the sharp edge of a sword, and I dig the back of my spear into the ground to keep from being knocked over and probably gutted.

I swipe at him when he takes his weight off my shield and before he can attempt to break my guard, and he backs away a measured distance, sheathing the curved sword into nothingness from my perspective.

He draws a spiked cudgel from his shadowy cloak and I ready my spear while making sure to both follow him step for step, and to not let Frodo come between us as I do.

He stomps forward, weapon raised like a bat, and I swing the spear by the base—catching him on the upper arm with a light graze. This earns me a vicious shriek from Khamûl, one that hurts my head and churns my stomach.

I don't want him getting anywhere near me with a club, because getting hit (even on the shield) is going to hurt like a bitch—Haldir personally made sure I knew that _after_ I decided I liked shields.

And he taught me the best way to not get hit on the shield is to do the hitting yourself.

So I resolve to attack, shortening the spear one length to make it slightly less unwieldy, and dive in.

It's dark though, and hard enough to see without the foul blood in my eyes. I swing, but feel no resistance—my lungs burn from breathing (or maybe from a lack of breathing) hard and my body aches with fatigue.

I wish I had fire, just enough to see by.

I take a hit on the shield and sail through the air, landing near the dying embers of our fire pit, wind knocked out of me but otherwise okay.

Life is so convenient for me sometimes, that I really wonder if the Valar aren't looking out for me. Or maybe I have Dwarven blood; didn't Tolkien say that the Dwarves could make a fire out of anything?

Regardless, I pick up an ember and pat the ground until I find the oily fish grease from our earlier supper. There are scraps of tinder, like bark and old man's beard laying about, collected by whoever was managing the fire. I soak it into the grease and ball it around the head of my spear, shaking hard as I do.

The ember is burning my hand by now and I bite my cheek against the pain, forcing myself onto my knees as Khamûl approaches.

He raises his cudgel over head, meaning to give me a really good wallop this time, and I break the ember against the spear head, tree foliage and fish oil burning hot from just a single spark.

It won't last long though, so I lurch forward, half on my feet and half on my knees, forcing the fiery spear tip into Khamûl's chest.

He bursts into flame like a witch on the stake and I fall back, shield blocking the brunt of the intense heat.

I expect him to flee, or douse himself in the river.

Instead, with a great bang like a gunshot, he crumples in on himself and disappears. The other two Nazgûl seem to sense this exchange and tear into the coming dawn with all haste. After a moment the sound of flapping wings is no more and all is silent.

I roll onto my back and just breathe.

* * *

 **Let's play a fun game—courtesy of Spirit of Wynter. If Cornelia and Haldir were to have a baby, what do you think that baby would turn out like? ;O**

 **Also, I rushed to put this chapter up so if you see any spelling/grammar mistakes, don't mind** **—I'll try and fix them later.**


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